The Beginning
by BowtiesAreCool22
Summary: Everything collapsed so quickly. In the blink of an eye, everything I knew was gone. Now, I have nothing but a group of strangers to rely on. I don't even think I'm the same person anymore. But I'm going to survive. I know that. This is the beginning of my journey, and I'm going to survive it...
1. The Beginning of The End

**Author's Note:**

Hello everybody, thank you for clicking on this fanfiction. This is my first story, and I'd like to address a few things before you read it.

Firstly, I will welcome any constructive criticism. Fanfiction is all about becoming a better writer.

Secondly, I wrote this story with the intention of being realistic, and there will be no fluff or romance. As people have told me that my story is very realistic, I suppose that I have done well, but tell me immediately if your Mary-Sue sensors start going off.

Third, basic sex/violence/language warning. It is, after all, the Walking Dead.

Fourth, a medical disclaimer. I have a_ bit_ of medical knowledge, but if some things are inaccurate, I'm sorry. I sincerely hope nobody is reading fanfiction for accurate medical information.

Fifth, this is more of a prologue than a chapter, and it's written in a somewhat detached manner. It's also past tense, which will change when the story sets in as I write in present tense.

Lastly, this story is currently completed and I am doing a last check over the grammar, spelling, plot, and everything else. If you ever find that a chapter seems to be missing, or you feel like _you_ are missing something, it's likely that I've just updated that chapter.

Also, I promise I won't have anymore author's notes that are this long.

So, let's set off on this grand adventure together.

**End Author's Note.**

* * *

That first day—the day that everything went to hell—started off so normal.

The first day was a Friday. Mom and I were going to my cousins' house to watch the kids while my aunt and uncle were on their fifteenth anniversary trip. I didn't mind because I love my cousins so much, but Mom was really grouchy because it was almost inevitable that there would be another cousin in nine to ten months. And it's not that my aunt and uncle were bad parents, it's just that I had a lot of cousins.

Lucy was twelve, Drew was ten, Julie was eight, Fiona was six, Will was three, and Jamie was almost one. I liked to call them the Brady Bunch. Mom liked to call them the Horde.

I always thought my mother was a strange person. She could handle all of the crazy cases in the ER, but give her a house full of kids and she completely loses it.

One kid was her cap, and that was me.

The ride to my aunt and uncle's house was when we first heard the news reports. There was something happening in major cities all around the world; people attacking each other left and right. Some radio stations said that it was a global riot due to the economy tanking, and others said that it was some sort of terrorist attack. I wanted to listen, but Mom changed it to music.

When we got to the house, my aunt and uncle were packed and ready to leave. After a goodbye to their children and a few instructions to me and Mom, they left.

I didn't hear anything about the problem for the rest of the day. I was wrapped up playing video games with Drew, talking about books with Lucy, playing princess and tea party with Julie and Fiona, giving Will piggy-back rides, and making sure Jamie didn't feel too bad about his mommy being away.

That night, as soon as Julie, Fiona, Will, and Jamie went to bed, Mom checked out too.

Lucy, Drew, and I stayed up for a bit later. Drew was mostly savoring the extra computer time, whereas Lucy and I were discussing our various books and TV shows. It happened around nine o'clock.

"Darn it!" exclaimed Drew.

"Hush." I muttered, getting up to see what the problem was. It looked like Drew's game had been shut down and replaced with some sort of pop-up add, but as I got closer I saw what it was. The moment I realized was when it started talking.

_"The Emergency Broadcast System has been activated. Please stay in your homes. Do not let anybody enter unless you are sure they are not infected. Turn to your local news station for more information. If the power goes out, turn on the radio. Repeat: The Emergency Broadcast System has been activated. Please stay in your homes. Do not let anybody else—"_

The generic male voice was cut off by me hitting the mute button on the keyboard. I looked at the words printed across the screen of the computer. It was the same words that the man had just said.

"Lucy, turn on the news." I instructed quietly. Lucy nodded and rushed to find the remote.

"What's going on?" asked Drew "I don't like this."

"Just go to some other websites." I told him "See if this is everywhere or if it's just a virus."

Drew nodded and turned back to the computer. The Emergency Broadcast System announcement thing didn't have an exit button, so he typed in some lines of code and did… something. Drew was always amazing with computers in a way that I just didn't understand, and at that point in time I was certainly grateful for it.

"Sami," said Lucy, calling my attention to the news report she had just turned on. The words that had just been spoken by the generic male voice were running across the crawler on the bottom of the screen, and the news report itself was ghastly. It was a helicopter video of some city, but we had already missed the name of it. There were fires, gunshots, explosions, screams, and mobs of people ambling towards a bunch of soldiers. The people were getting shot at, but they just kept coming. When the people reached the soldiers, it wasn't clear what was happening, but it was apparently gruesome enough for them to cut the image.

_"The government is declaring a state of emergency,"_ explained the unfamiliar news lady. I had heard those words in so many movies that it made everything feel like a dream_. "There are reports from every major city across the world. All flights have been cancelled, all borders closed, and the government is urging people to stay in their homes. The Centers for Disease Control has made no statement on the subject. Martial Law has been declared until further notice. Prisons in urban areas have released their inmates."_ The woman just kept staying stuff like that, listing all that was happening, how they had no idea what it was and that it was spreading like wildfire.

We woke up Mom and she started barking orders at us. We filled up bathtubs, sinks, old soda bottles, and anything that we could with water. We locked the doors and put some supplies in the car in case we had to leave at short notice.

Drew was put on phone duty. Since the lines were so jammed, he had to keep dialing numbers. He took turns—my uncle's cell phone, my aunt's cell phone, my home phone, my dad's cell phone, the grandparents that we shared, the grandparents on their dad's side, the grandparents on my dad's side. He couldn't get through to any of them, so he just kept repeating the pattern.

Lucy was helping Mom with supply stuff. Food, water, clothes, and things like that. I was prepping my uncle's two guns and watching the news report. Mom couldn't shoot a gun, but my dad had been taking me shooting since I was about eight.

Eventually, Drew got through to his dad's cell phone. He talked to his parents, and then gave it to Lucy, and when Lucy was done she gave it to Mom. I didn't talk to them because I didn't really have anything to say. They talked for as long as they could, and then they hung up. Mom told Lucy and Drew that they were trying to get home, then set them both back to their tasks. She pulled me into the den and explained to me what was really happening. "They can't get out of Virginia; there are too many road blocks. They _really are_ trying to get to us, but it's doubtful they'll make it here. They said that they could see planes dropping bombs on a nearby city."

That was the point when Mom lost it. She didn't break down and cry or anything like that, it was just the point where I replaced her as the adult presence because she couldn't handle it anymore. I held her for a few minutes and then told her to get some rest. She was going to need it.

I wasn't worried about Lucy and Drew. We were nerdy enough to have pulled all-nighters over things like Harry Potter premiers and a new Doctor Who on the BBC. Sleep wasn't an issue.

The first of the crazy people wandered onto the street around three in the morning. I watched him out the window as he lumbered toward one of the neighborhood strays, that Julie had long ago christened Blackie.

The crazy man's shirt was torn off, and he had an awful-looking gash running all up and down his side. He was pale as death, and it looked like he was limping. Blackie looked up at him hopefully, used to getting fed by the neighborhood residents. I realized what would happen a moment before it did.

I shut the curtain and turned around just before the wailing started. Blackie was being ripped apart and eaten alive—_I just knew it_. I covered my ears and breathed deeply in and out. Animals are my soft spot. The fact that they can't reason makes them so innocent. They can't understand why something is happening or make a plan to get out of it—it just _happens_.

My motto is that there's always a way out. My dad taught me that. But animals can't think like that.

Lucy entered the room cautiously. "What is that?" she asked me quietly. I stood and made my way towards her, then wrapped her in a big hug. I tucked my head into her shoulder and quietly explained to her what was happening outside. "Don't tell Drew or any of the rest of them." I whispered "Not my mom, either. None of them will be able to handle it."

Lucy nodded and held me for a few more moments before we got back to our various chores. By that time it was more busy work that actually getting anything accomplished, but busy work was better than sitting and waiting for something to happen.

It was around six-thirty in the morning when the news man who had taken over for the news lady a couple of hours ago gave the breaking news. The sick people weren't sick—they were dead. The dead were coming back to life.

In a horrible way, it made sense. None of them ran because they were stiff, they were pale because they were dead, the wounds didn't stop them because they were already beyond repair. And the eating… that was the basest instinct of nature. Somehow, the dead people's basest instincts were being reawakened after their passing.

The fact that they were dead made them a nearly impossible enemy. The only way to stop them was to inflict wounds so bad they could no longer move. The news said to cut off the legs or the arms to keep them from getting at you. Don't let them bite you because the bites were making people sick.

Julie and Fiona didn't understand why they couldn't go outside on the second day. They threw multiple fits and it got to the point where we had to put heavy objects in front of the doors just to keep them from sneaking out. Will was easier, because he was happy doing anything that involved people, but it was hard to keep even him happy with his older sisters throwing conniption fits.

Drew and Lucy slept that night. I took a few light naps throughout the third day. The power went out on the fourth day. The radio said that the government had lost contact with places like Singapore and Taiwan, who had high population densities. They said that New York City was a battleground with no one left alive but the soldiers trying to hold off the hordes of the dead. On the fifth day they lost LA, Boston, Miami, San Francisco, Chicago, Providence, Louisville, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Dallas; all the major cities were going to hell in a hand basket.

On the sixth day, they declared all of the Hawaiian Islands but Honolulu safe and on the seventh day, we lost Hawaii.

That first week we never left the house once. Julie and Fiona figured out fairly quickly to do as we told them and to stop throwing tantrums. We didn't tell them what was wrong, but they knew that_ something_ was up.

Drew stopped dialing numbers. He said that it was no use. I told him he was wrong, but I think he knew that it was a lie.

I didn't worry about Dad as much as I should've. We lived on a big property with guns that he knew very well how to use, so I knew he could defend himself. I worried more about my aunt and uncle, which was new for me. They were somewhere in Virginia with no way to get back home. Best case scenario they were in some sort of refugee camp. Worst case scenario… I refused to think about it back then.

Lucy did a lot of praying in those first few days. She wore all of her rosary beads and knelt in front of their little statue of Christ and just prayed. I didn't bother her unless I really needed something, because I knew that her faith was probably the only thing keeping her sane at that point.

On the eighth day, they said that everybody should go to Atlanta. The CDC had set up a refugee camp. We didn't want to go at first because of what had happened with Hawaii, but three more days passed and Atlanta was still being declared a safe zone.

So we decided to go for it.

We made it out of North Carolina and into South, then through into Georgia. We had steered clear of any cities and highways, staying on the back roads. We didn't pass too many of the dead people, but the ones that we did pass were bloody and mangled and horrible to look at. We made sure that Julie and Fiona had their eyes closed whenever we passed them.

We got to Atlanta on the fifteenth day.

When we got there, we knew that something was up pretty quick. Where were the helicopters and the army trucks and the walls? We drove slowly down the city blocks, but there was nothing except for burned out cars and very dead bodies. Mom got out of the car and headed up the road with the whispered promise of finding help that I was pretty sure didn't exist.

Mom got around the block up ahead and I clambered over the center console into the driver's seat in case we had to leave in a hurry. I rolled down the window and listened.

And I heard it.

It was one of the worst sounds I've ever heard. First, it was like a low hum, but then it turned into a squelching and moaning and groaning melody of the worst sounds that a human throat can make.

Mom came running around the block, and at first I was relieved, but then I saw what was behind her—hundreds of those sick, dead people. They were all ambling after her, and Mom was limping. Her leg was bleeding, and I just knew that one of them had bit her.

I've always been indecisive. I have trouble with commitment. The decision I made next, however, boiled down to logic.

Mom could make it to the car, but if we waited for her, the dead people would get to us as well. We might be able to drive away, but there were so many of them, and if Mom was bit she was going to die anyway.

So I made my choice.

I leaned out the window. _"I LOVE YOU!"_ I shouted, and then I aimed the gun at my mother's head. Pulling the trigger wasn't as hard as I thought. The hardest part of the decision was the 'I love you', and knowing that I would never get to tell her that again.

Then I did a U-turn and got myself and my cousins out of Atlanta, running purely off of the shock and adrenaline. I had no doubt that I would break down later.

"Sami, why are we leaving without Aunt Jenny?" Julie asked.

"She had to go somewhere without us, baby." I whispered. I wasn't even completely sure that she had heard me. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw that Lucy was holding Jamie close to her with tears running down her face.

"Lucy —"

"I get it," she had grumbled. She wiped the tears away from her eyes "I'm not mad at you. And it was mercy, so God won't be either."

I knew that Lucy didn't mean that. She was a good Catholic, believed so strongly, and she didn't believe in mercy killing. She didn't believe in _any _kind of killing. She was pissed at me to a degree that I probably couldn't even fathom. For all I knew, she was scared at me.

So I ignored her.

We spent the next day driving as far into the countryside as we could, hoping to get away from anywhere with even a mildly high population density. Those places belonged to the dead. Drew started calling them Dead-Ones. It stuck.

We raided a small pawn shop and got a rifle, a pistol with a silencer, and a nice set of throwing knives. Lucy was good with throwing knives, which was something we'd discovered long before the dead came back to life. It was the kind of thing we always laughed about, but we didn't laugh anymore.

I liked to think that I was taking good care of my cousins. To an extent, I was. I kept them safe, got them the food, water, and supplies they needed. But I wasn't giving them as much love, and they needed that. I was going cold and I knew it, but I tried to ignore it and keep on.

We figured out that you had to aim for the head with the Dead-Ones. That was the only sure fire way to kill them. On day twenty-four (I was counting) we were hiding in a house that got surrounded by more than we could avoid, so I started shooting at them from the upstairs window. I aimed for the head on the first one I shot and it crumpled.

On day twenty-seven, we hit the luck jackpot. We found a cabin in the woods with a little bunker underneath stocked with enough food to last us for a good while. It was like a miracle from heaven itself.

The days in the bunker were boring, but boring was a small sacrifice for keeping away from dead cannibals. My biggest worry was having enough formula for Jamie, but eventually I realized that we would at least have enough to get us through the days in the bunker. He started eating some other foods as well, which certainly came as a relief. It was easier to find apple sauce than baby formula.

My second biggest worry was me and the fact that I have asthma. It had been months since I had an attack, but with all the running that we would be doing I knew that it was only a matter of time before I had another one. I had my inhaler, but it was running close to empty before everything went to hell and I knew that we would be hard-pressed to find another.

I never thought of such a small medical issue as asthma to be a killer. But it turns out that my lung problems were the least of my worries.

On the fifty-third day, Fiona died.

She threw a tantrum about not being able to go outside, and charged out. I yelled and ran after her, but she was screaming by the time I made it up the stairs. One of the Dead-Ones had her by the arm—the arm that was now a mangled hunk of flesh. My vision went red and when it came back, I was holding Fiona close to me and was surrounded by three _really_ dead Dead-Ones.

It only took Fiona a few hours to die.

It only took Fiona a few minutes to stop being dead.

I was the one that ended up killing her, because Lucy and Drew just couldn't do it. I didn't blame them one little bit. I stabbed her a couple times in places other than the head, just because I couldn't bear to kill my baby cousin. But it had to be done, and eventually I did it.

We couldn't bury her. We couldn't risk being outside that long. But I covered her in some blankets and moved her out of the bunker, and that would have to be enough.

We stayed in the bunker until day sixty-eight.

I really wanted to stay longer, but we just couldn't. We didn't have the supplies to stay there any longer and I didn't trust myself to find my way back to this random cabin in the middle of the woods. So we left.

A day passed.

That's when we ran into the group of Dead-Ones. Smaller than the group in Atlanta that got Mom, but just as deadly and just as terrifying.

We got separated in the chaos.

I knew that Lucy had Will, and Drew had Jamie. Julie was supposed to stay near Lucy.

I wanted to turn around and find them, but I was running for my life. The Dead-Ones were everywhere except for ahead, like a peninsula of the walking dead.

I just kept running, ignoring the cramps in my side, my asthma, and my bad ankle, stabbing any Dead-Ones that got too close, watching out for trees between my tears, trying not to think about my cousins who were probably dead. If Julie got separated she was dead. If Jamie got too loud then he and Drew were dead. If Will got too fussy then he and Lucy were dead. It was all a matter of luck, to be honest. But something in the back of my head was saying _'You ran out of luck when you found that bunker.'_

The bunker kept us from having to venture outside for about six weeks. We lost Fiona, but that was out of her own foolishness. Our luck was out. And this was it.

I don't know how long I ran. There was a tightening in my throat and I had to stop and use my inhaler for the first time. It wasn't an attack, but I knew that one could be coming.

I ran again.

Then I heard the gunshots. The Dead-Ones around me began dropping like flies, and for a few minutes I thought that I was saved. I dropped to the ground and watched as three men gunned down the Dead-Ones chasing me, and I thought that they were going to save me. I was imagining finding all of my cousins and setting out with these men that I didn't even know and _surviving_. I thought that the world had let me get lucky again and that Lucy's prayers were being answered.

I don't think I've ever been more wrong about anything.

As soon as any Dead-Ones posing an immediate threat were taken care of, I stood up and walked cautiously towards the men, thanking them. And then they came forward and grabbed me.

They tied me up, ripped my clothes up, and did things to me that I couldn't even fathom before it happened.

I'm grateful that the shock eventually set in, but now it's gone and the men are still here and I know that I'm bleeding out from the places where they slashed me.

This is where I am. This is how it's all going to end for me. The world goes to hell, the dead start walking, and I'm going to be killed by people.

My name is Samantha Dawson. I have lived fourteen years. I shot my mother in the head. I failed my cousins. I don't know where I am.

I am going to die.

In this world of walking dead cannibals, I am going to be killed by people. I don't know if that's embarrassing, or ironic, or just plain stupid, but that is how it's ending for me.

I glance down at the bleeding cut on my left leg. I think the guy hit an artery. That's okay… maybe I'll die faster.

I think about the blood loss, and I think about seeing Mom and Fiona and whoever else has died again. I let the sleep creep into me, and I don't mind at all when everything finally goes black.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Okay, yeah, it ended on a dark note, but this is not an extremely depressing One-Shot.

Anyway, I thank you for your time, please keep reading and review.

**End Author's Note.**


	2. The Beginning of Dawson

_"…fi…"_

I must be dead. Fi is here. My sweet, sweet Fiona is here in Heaven with me. I hope she doesn't remember how she died. I hope my mother forgives me for killing her.

Now someone is hitting my face. Why are they doing that? "C'mon, girl, stay with me!" someone is saying. Where would I go? I can't move. I open my eyes and see a ragged-looking man staring at my face. The trees above him are moving… no, that doesn't make sense. We're moving. He's carrying me. "Good," says the man "Stay with me."

Now more people are talking. "Found 'er in the woods."

"Christ, what happened to her?"

Now I'm somewhere soft. Warm. I think I was cold before. Now I'm warm. That's nice. Where am I? I want to open my eyes, but I'm too tired. And I'm still hurting. I make a small noise and let myself drift away again.

Now there's singing. It's nice. It's a girl singing, and she has a pretty voice. I think I've heard the song that she's singing, but I'm not sure. And there's something on my head. A pressure… is the girl stroking my hair? No, that can't be it. People don't take care of me; that's my job.

I'm around again. But this is… different. I'm awake, really. Things before this were more like a dream. I can really feel myself now.

First of all, my entire body aches. It feels like I got hit with a truck after doing yard work while on my period. Second, my throat is painfully dry. There is absolutely no moisture in my mouth, which I didn't even know was possible. Third, my stomach is so twisted in knots I can't tell if I have to pee, throw up, or eat something. The whole thing is like jet lag, but twenty times worse.

"Do… do you think this is really the time… to discuss this I mean?"

Someone is talking. Someone very close to me—it's a man's voice. Am I… _God_, those men. That's why I feel so… _horrid_. Those men that did this to me, that raped me and cut me and tied me up and _God_…

"Well, I'm not really feelin' like there's a lot o' time for anythin,'" another voice says. A female voice. A much-less-threatening voice.

Now I remember what happed after. I remember another man telling me not to die, slapping my face to keep me alert, and carrying me through the woods.

I'm somewhere safe.

I open my eyes and take in my surroundings. I'm in a room decorated in neutral colors. The windows are open to let in the sunlight, and it's a generally bright place. I'm tucked into a twin bed, the comforter pulled up to my chin.

Sitting in a chair next to my bed is a man—a young man, but a man. He's Asian… Chinese or Korean or Japanese. He's a twenty-something, and at the moment he's focusing on the young woman standing in the doorway of the room.

She's a twenty-something, too. She's pretty—tall, skinny, short brown hair, and light eyes. She notices me as the man starts talking again.

"No no, there... there is. There is. I mean, I—I... I want..."

"Glenn, stop talking." the woman says, crossing the room, passing Glenn, and kneeling next to my bed. "Hey," she whispers.

I don't get a chance to reply, because before I can I'm overcome by nausea and I throw up. Luckily, none of it gets on the bed or the young woman, but the floor is a mess. The woman gingerly steps around the puddle and takes a seat on the bed. She takes my hand and brushes my hair with her fingers "Daddy said that might happen. You lost a lot o' blood." I whimper in response. "What's your name?" she asks.

I don't say anything.

"It's okay if you don' wanna talk," says the young woman. She stands and adds "I'll go get somethin' to clean this up with." She smiles encouragingly at me and gives the man, Glenn, a _look _before leaving.

Where am I? Who are these people?

"So, uh… you're awake." says Glenn awkwardly. I turn my head away, not really wanting to look at anyone. "Sorry," he mumbles.

I hear the woman come back, hear her start cleaning. "Do you want some help?" Glenn asks.

"It's fine," the woman replies.

There's a few more minutes of cleaning. She leaves again. She comes back.

I feel the bed shift as she sits down next to me again. She rubs my shoulder through the comforter and says "D'you want anythin'?"

I don't respond. I don't deserve anything. I let my cousins down and then I was stupid enough to let those men get me. I should've run away from the men, found my cousins, and gotten out. I should've kept them safe—but I didn't. And now they're dead. I'm certain of it.

My babies are dead.

I let them die.

I don't deserve anything.

"I'll bring you some water," says the young woman "You've been out for a few days; I'm sure you're thirsty."

I've been asleep for a few days. A few days is a long time. Enough time to die of thirst or get an infection… or get eaten. My cousins are dead. All of my babies are dead.

The woman stands up "My name's Maggie, by the way. That's Glenn." That's her parting remark, and then she walks out of the room. A few minutes later she comes back. I hear the small thump of glass on wood, and then Maggie leaves me again.

I listen. There are birds singing and crickets chirping and somewhere there's a rooster that occasionally crows. That puts a lump in my throat, because it reminds me of home. Is Dad dead? Is Dad alive? I don't know. There's no way for him to ever find me. He's two states away, and if he left our house there's no way I'll ever find him.

I don't move. Not even when my leg falls asleep and I'm being tormented by pins and needles. I deserve the discomfort. I deserve the pain that I'm in. I let my cousins die. I should've watched them more carefully.

At some point, there are footsteps and Maggie's voice says "Has she even moved?"

"Do you think she's just sleeping?" asks Glenn. He's been here this whole time. I guess he's supposed to be watching me.

"No, she's restless. If she was sleeping she would'a moved around by now." Maggie replies.

Someone gets closer to the bed and pulls back the comforter. I think that it's Maggie, but I can't tell because I'm not even putting in the effort to focus my vision. The person strokes my hair out of my face and feels my forehead.

"She's really cold," says Maggie "I think she's in shock."

"It makes sense," says Glenn "Didn't you hear how Daryl_ found_ her?"

"I know," sighs Maggie "Where's my dad? She needs him."

"I'll go look for him." says the male voice. I hear footsteps and then it's just Maggie sitting in the room with me. I feel her hand close around mine and it's like the heat from a dryer. I must be really cold.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you," Maggie says. She squeezes my hand and continues stroking my hair "One of the men here found you. He came runnin' into the house spittin' angry with a half-dead, bloodied up girl in his arms. My little sister nearly had a heart attack." I can hear the smile in her voice. She's fond of her little sister.

I think I vaguely remember the man that found me. The one that slapped me and told me to stay alive. I remember his face was dirty. But it was so blurry…

Maggie starts talking. She tells me about all the people in the camp. She tells me about her sister and her father and the other people who are living on this farm with them. She talks about Glenn quite a bit. She really likes Glenn. I think she loves Glenn.

The fact that Maggie is in love depresses me more than anything else, because it's inevitable that one of them will die and the other will be heartbroken. I wonder how many members of the group there were that died that Maggie isn't telling me about.

"Maggie!" I hear footsteps as someone enters the room. "Your dad's gone."

"What d'you mean he's _gone_?" asks Maggie, standing up and crossing the room.

"He threw out all of your step-mom's things—we think he went to the bar in town. Rick and I are going to go look for him."

Maggie doesn't say anything for a few moments, then there are footsteps and Maggie and Glenn leave the room.

I can hear arguing outside, and I'm not sure it's just Maggie and Glenn. There are new voices, and when the yelling calms down there seems to be a consensus.

I count for a while. Nobody has come back into the house, and I don't know what's happening. Are they going to get Maggie's dad for me? I guess he's a doctor. It doesn't matter—I don't have a physical problem.

I'm somewhere around four thousand when someone enters the room. They walk over and sit down on the bed next to me.

"Hi," says the person. It's a girl, but it's not Maggie. She has a light, fluttery voice. She takes my hand and starts stroking my hair. Honestly, has my hair not been stroked enough today? "I'm Beth." says the new person. "Maggie wants me to stay with you. Glenn went to go get our dad and she's worried about him." Beth waits a few seconds, as if hoping that I'll respond. When I don't, she goes on "They think that all the blood that you lost is making you like this—but I don't think so. I think I know what's wrong with you."

Beth pauses again and strokes my hair some more. "For a long time, we thought that all o' the Walkers were just sick."

Walkers. That's what these people call the Dead-Ones.

"We thought that there was a cure that we could give 'em, and they would get back to normal."

I guess I can understand that. Why would anybody want to believe that there's no hope for all of those dead people?

"But after a while, we knew that it wasn' true. They killed all the Walkers that we were keepin' in the barn, and I felt like they'd killed my momma and my brother all over again. I just wanted to die. I really thought about it, too. While everyone else was arguin' with each other, I was just sitting in my room. I crawled into my bed and sat like you are right now for hours. I didn' move, and I thought about all the ways that I could kill myself—hangin', cuttin' my wrists, things like that."

Beth takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand. I don't know why she's telling me this. Why she's trying to make me even more upset than I already am. Is she advocating suicide or something?

"But then I realized that I was wrong," the girl finally says "There's always more to live for." She pauses once more and what she's saying makes a lot more sense. Of course she doesn't want me to commit suicide, why would she want that? She wants me to get better. But I don't want to get better.

No, why would I say that? That's selfish. That's survivor's guilt.

"I get that you're weak from what those men did to you, but I don' think that's all that happened to you. Daryl said that you were all alone out there, so I think you probably lost everyone—you just wanna die, too. You gave up. But you shouldn' give up. You should keep fightin.'"

Survivor's guilt. That's what I have, that's what's wrong with me. That's why I want to die. But survivor's guilt is just that… I didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't my fault that my cousins died. There was nothing more I could have done for them. It was out of my hands.

I decide to look at Beth. _God_, she looks so much like Lucy. They're both small, with light blonde hair and big bright eyes.

"There we go," Beth smiles brightly. "You've got some pretty eyes."

I tuck my head into the pillow and Beth giggles. "You're gonna be alright," she whispers. "Have some water."

I look back up and Beth is holding out a glass. I take the glass and take a few sips. My throat and mouth is so dry that I can barely swallow, but once everything is moistened back to normal the water feels heavenly.

"Careful," says Beth. She puts a hand on mine and pulls the glass away from me a bit. "If you drink too much too fast you'll just throw it up."

I nod and take another sip. After the glass is empty, Beth places it back on the table and says "Go ahead and get s'more sleep."

* * *

When I awake again, an unfamiliar voice says "D'you need some water?"

I open my eyes and look up at the new person. I don't recognize him; he's old, with white hair, light eyes, and a kindly face. I'm not good with guessing ages, but I'd estimate him to be around sixty.

"Water?" the man repeats. I nod and the man takes the glass of water off of the bedside table—it's been refilled. I sit up and take the glass. The water is even better than before, because now I can actually swallow properly.

"My Beth tells me that she got you to come around after you were completely unresponsive," the man says "I'm very proud of her for that." I nod and take sips of the water, curling my knees up to my chest. "My name is Hershel, by the way. Would you like to tell me yours?" I shake my head.

"Are you feeling up to eating?" Hershel asks. I shake my head again. "That's alright," he says "The fact that you're drinking is good enough for now."

I nod again and take another sip of the water. Hershel is sitting on the bed next to me like Maggie and Beth did. I notice some blood on his shirt, and suddenly it's all that I can think about. Where did that blood come from?

And then I think about the fact that he's a man, and he's sitting right beside me like this, and suddenly the guilt over my cousins is driven from my mind because all I can think about are those men. What those _horrible creatures_ did to me.

I set the water down on the table and look at my arms. They're both covered in bandages in different places, and I can feel more bandages on my legs. I pull back the sheets and look at my right leg, which is completely bandaged. I remember this one cut, because it started at my inner ankle, and then up my shin and to my knee, and then all the way up to my thigh and then—

I pull my legs up and tuck in my head. I cannot think about this right now. Ever. I don't want to remember all the things that those men did to me, because in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter. What matters is that my cousins are dead, but I'm safe.

_Don't think about the past._

* * *

The next few days pass without any difference other than the fact that I'm awake. Beth and Maggie visit me. Maggie keeps it light, talking about whatever romance with Glenn she can muster up at the end of the world. Beth is proud that I found the will to keep going. Beth doesn't sugarcoat things as much as Maggie, even though I can tell that she's more vulnerable. I think that Maggie just wants to keep me from going through more than I have to.

Hershel makes frequent visits to check on my vital signs, make sure I'm drinking, and make sure I'm still recovering. About three days after I wake up he finally gets me to eat some eggs. I normally hate eggs, but the idea of something warm and fresh after weeks of canned food makes my mouth water. It's glorious.

A man named T-Dog starts visiting. He's a black and burly man, the kind of man that would usually be intimidating, but he's incredibly kind. He tells me about what's going on within the group. I was found when Daryl the hunter was looking for Carol's daughter, Sophia, and now Sophia is dead. They have some injured guy from another group that they're worried about. There's debate about whether they should kill him or just cut him loose. Occasionally, T-Dog reads me the Bible, which is nice. It's kind of like the old days. I used to be very religious.

Besides the young guy named Randall, my biggest concern for the group is that one of their women is pregnant. She's pregnant, and she got herself knocked up after everything went to hell. I hope she doesn't visit me, because I'll probably smack her upside the head. What kind of idiot goes and brings a baby into this world? I was pretty Christian before all of this, and I believed in the sanctity of life, no abortions, and that sort of thing. But to be honest, it might be kinder to just abort this baby before it can feel pain. Every time it cries it'll just attract more Dead-Ones, and it can't fend for itself.

I've seen people getting ripped apart by the Dead-Ones, but the image of a baby being gutted is something that I just can't muster up. It's the type of thing that you can't imagine because it's just plain wrong. Babies are supposed to live.

_Don't think about Jamie._

I do eventually meet Lori the pregnant woman. She starts bringing me meals, and she always smiles at me. I never smile back. Sometimes she chatters a bit. She loves her husband, Rick. Her son, Carl, never listens to her. I find it incredibly irritating, but it might just be the fact that I have a tainted opinion of her.

I think it's around a week after I've woken up now, and Lori's just taken my lunch tray away. Today it was chicken. It's one of the first really hardy things that I've eaten. Lori's prattling on as she leaves "Rick and Shane went to set Randall loose…" I suppose that's a bit of a relief. Randall was causing T-Dog quite a bit of stress.

After Lori leaves, I realize that I'm still holding the knife that I used to cut the chicken. This happens to me sometimes, I just forget about something. I suspect that it's the trauma and all that, messing with my brain. If it still happens after I'm fully recovered I'll tell Hershel, but for now I'm not worried.

I've been walking a bit, so I decide I'll go bring Lori the knife myself. Nobody's let me walk out of the room yet, and I'd like to see the rest of the house.

It takes me about a solid minute to get out of the bed due to some serious pain in my lower back. I get through it and stand. I'm a bit dizzy for a few seconds, but then I'm fine. I start shuffling forward and open the door of my room. I'm in a hallway, and I can hear voices drifting from an open doorway. I amble forward and just as I'm about to enter the room, I make out what they're saying. It's a female voice that I don't recognize.

"…go in there and tell that girl that everything's going to be alright." The woman's voice is full of spiteful sarcasm "You go tell her that her life will be perfect and she'll get everything: husband, son, baby… _boyfriend_." The woman pauses for a moment, probably to let the suggestion of her words sink in. "She just has to look on the bright side."

The woman who was speaking immediately appears in the hallway and sees me. She stops, notices the knife in my hands, and holds out a hand for it, giving me a tentative smile. She looks middle-aged, and has curly blonde hair and blue eyes. She's rather pretty. Who could this be…?

"Lori thought you wanted to kill yourself." says the woman. I raise my eyebrows, trying to understand how that led to an argument. Understanding, she tacks on "I thought you should get a choice. Lori was going to barge in there and take the knife away." I shrug and hold out the knife for her to take. Really, suicide hasn't crossed my mind since I first woke up, and then it was more the idea of just wasting away.

The woman takes the knife "Do you want my help getting back to bed?" I shake my head at first, but stumble almost immediately after my first step. The woman smiles and takes my arm, helping me down the hallway and back into my room. I lay down and the woman pulls the sheets over me.

"Did you really want to kill yourself?"

I shake my head and give the woman a half-hearted smile. She nods and says "That's good. When my sister died, I thought about it. Almost did, actually… but I got talked out of it." She pauses and looks at me appraisingly. "Did you think about it?"

I nod. The woman nods as well "That's normal," she says "I can't even imagine what you've been through…" she decides to leave that thought alone, and then says "My name's Andrea," she extends a hand, but I don't take it.

Andrea stands up and makes to leave the room, but before she's out the door she turns and says "If you ever get sick of Lori, you can always come and find me."

I nod and give Andrea a wry smile, and she responds with a genuine one. She leaves the room, and I curl up into my covers for my… afternoon nap? I don't know. I take a lot of naps these days.

* * *

After a while, Carl comes to visit me. He looks a bit like his mother, but not enough to irritate me. I suspect he's around twelve, possibly eleven or thirteen. He's got dark hair and a freckly face, and he's wearing an honest-to-God Sheriff's hat.

"Hey," he says as he walks in "I'm Carl." He extends a hand, and he seems so happy about it that I actually give it a light shake. "I was wondering if you wanted to go outside?" he says "I got shot a couple weeks ago, and that was all I wanted to do."

He got _shot_. Only in this world could something like getting shot be mentioned so casually.

I give Carl a small smile and a nod. He helps me out of bed and out the door of the house.

The farm is pretty. We're in one of those classic white farmhouses with a wraparound porch, and there are green fields and fencing for probably a good ten acres in every direction. Beyond the field are the woods, and scattered across the fields are barns and sheds and chicken coops. I see a couple cows off to the left.

Carl helps me sit down in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, and it almost feels like a random Sunday morning at Cracker Barrel. I smile at the memory of my preschool teacher. I was her favorite kid, and she always liked to take me out on Sundays. In the mornings, we would go to Cracker Barrel and she would let me order hot chocolate, and after breakfast we would sit on the rocking chairs on the front porch and she would tell me some story about her life. Usually it was the antics of her daughter, who was expecting her first child.

I close my eyes and sit back, letting the sun warm up my face. I haven't felt the sun like this in several weeks. It's nice.

"I've been keeping something for you." Carl says suddenly. I open my eyes and watch as he reaches under the collar of his shirt "Mom gave them to me…"

He retrieves a chain, pulls it over his head, and holds it out to me. It takes me a moment to realize what they are… my father's dog tags. I wore them all the time before all this, and I was wearing them when everything went down. I hadn't even though about it.

I reach out for the chain slowly and grasp the tags in my hand. I bring them to my face. Besides a light bloodstain on one of them, they're the same as ever; my dad's name _'B G Dawson'_ in neat letters above all of his other information. Now I have the small bloodstain to tell the two apart.

"We've been calling you Dawson," says Carl "'Cause we're pretty sure they're not yours, so B probably isn't your first initial."

I chuckle lightly and don't respond. Dawson's a good name. I've heard it enough to respond to it, and I don't think I want to be Sami anyway. Sami feels a whole other world away.

I slip the chain over my neck and smile at Carl, fingering the tags. I suppose, in a way, there's still hope—my father could still be alive. I know that I'll never see him again, but he could still be alive. That's enough.

I sit back in my chair and wince, because my abdomen is cramping. It takes me a few moments to realize why, and then I almost feel silly. Something as normal as getting a period hasn't really occurred to me. I mean, of course I'll get my period. I haven't changed that much. I think it's about that time of the month.

"What's wrong?" asks Carl. I put my hand over my stomach and wince dramatically. "Oh." He says, his eyes widening. "Andrea says that when girls' stomachs hurt that I should leave them alone." This gets a laugh out of me, but I stop because it's really messing with my stomach. I wince and shift my weight, hoping to find a position that'll minimize the pain. I don't usually get cramps this bad. Maybe it's all the blood loss.

"Do you want some antacids?" asks Carl "There's some in our first aid kit."

I smile at Carl and shake my head. I'll be fine. These people have already done enough for me. I don't need to steal their antacids on top of everything else. Besides, what I really need are painkillers.

I allow Carl to prattle on a bit. There's not much for him to talk about other than his parents and occasionally getting chased by the rooster. He accidentally mentions Sophia when telling me a story from a few weeks ago, and I can tell that he really misses her. The only two kids in all of this; I'm sure they were close. I wonder if he sees me as some sort of replacement friend. I wonder if he knows how old I am—I've always looked older than my actual age.

I think we've probably been out here for an hour or so when Maggie walks up the porch. She smiles at us and says "Got her out o' the house?"

Carl shrugs. "When I got shot, all I wanted to do was go outside," he explains "I figured she'd like that."

Maggie nods and looks at me "How're ya feelin'?" she asks. I bite my lip and point at my abdomen, widening my eyes and hoping that she'll get the message. She knits her eyebrows together for a few moments before she says "Oh!" and nods. "Carl, go see your momma—I'll take her back in."

Carl looks confused, but does as Maggie says. He gives me a wave, a 'goodbye' and then Maggie takes me inside. She helps me up the stairs, which takes a lot more time than I'd like. We reach a bathroom in the hallway that I presume belongs to Maggie and Beth.

"There're things under the sink," says Maggie. I nod and walk in, closing the door behind me. I stoop down and open the cabinet under the sink, pulling out the 'feminine care products' that would always make my dad cringe. I get a small smile thinking about his face.

I really hope he's still alive.

When I pull up the nightgown that I've been wearing, I notice something… very not good. This isn't normal. This isn't a bit of blood staining my underwear. There's blood running all down my legs. The stream is about halfway between my knees and my ankles.

I give a frightened little squeak and open the door to the bathroom. Maggie is waiting there, probably having planned to take me back downstairs. The moment she sees what the problem is, her face pales and she says "I'll get my dad."

Maggie runs off to fetch her father and I sit down on the toilet, trying to calm myself down. The blood isn't the issue here—I'm not at all squeamish. The issue is what the blood implies. It's probably internal bleeding. Maybe some of the trauma from what those men did to me has injured part of my reproductive system.

My mother would've been perfect for this if she was here. She worked in Labor and Delivery, but got called to the ER whenever there was a pregnant woman with significant trauma. She told me that it was usually alcoholics and battered wives, but occasionally the woman had been in a bad accident. She would be perfect for this; trauma of the reproductive system.

I laugh for absolutely no reason. I'm clearly going insane.

I hear footsteps and the next moment Maggie and Hershel are back. Maggie is pale, but Hershel has his doctor face on.

"Are you hurting anywhere?" he asks me, kneeling down and examining my legs. I point to my abdomen. "How badly is it hurting?" I shrug and hold up four fingers. I move my legs a bit and I cramp up again, so I change my mind and hold up six.

"Are you feeling light-headed?" he asks. I shrug, because I've been feeling light-headed since I woke up. I hold out my hand and wiggle it around, 'Just a bit.'

Hershel sighs and says "Let's get her back down to her room," he glances at me as he stands and adds "I don't think your life is in any immediate danger, but Maggie was right to come and get me."

I nod as Maggie steps forward to help me up.

When they get me to my room, they lay a towel down under the sheets and then I lay down as well. I decide to just close my eyes and go to sleep. Maybe I'll get lucky and I won't wake up…

That's a horrible thing to think.

* * *

"…has a right to know!"

"After all she's been through, do you really want to tell her this? She'll probably go catatonic again!"

"I've talked to her, she'll be fine!"

"_You've_ talked to_ her_! She doesn't talk back!"

"I would wanna know… she's just sad abou' whoever she lost. She ain't gonna kill herself over this."

"Sweetheart, I don't think that you know anything about this—"

"And you do!"

"Jus' tell her the truth; she'll be upset if she finds out later."

Who's arguing? What are they arguing about? It sounds like three women.

"We can tell her when she's not a suicide risk!" All of the voices are familiar, I just can't place them.

"She's not a risk now! She deserves the truth after what she's been through!"

"Telling her this will ruin her life, she'll have to carry it around—"

"Her life is already ruined!" I think that the voice is sensing victory "Her entire family and anyone she's ever known has either been eaten or are walking around eating other people! She was raped and maimed by three sickos and on top of everything else she has to live in this world! Do you think that telling her this is going to change her outlook on life very much?"

The other voice stays silent and the third voice says "I'll go check on her…"

I hear the door to my room creak and I open my eyes to see Beth walk in. Beth! Of course! How could I mistake that voice? She sounds like a pixie… or Luna Lovegood.

Beth freezes when she sees me watching her. "How much o' that did you hear?" she asks me. I shrug. Beth gives me a fleeting half-smile before there are footsteps and the other two women appear in the doorway. Lori and Andrea. The blood loss must have gotten to my head. I've heard these people talk enough to recognize their voices.

"I'm going to tell her." Andrea declares resolutely. She gives Lori a meaningful look, and instead of arguing she walks away this time.

With Lori out of the room, Andrea steps forward and sits down in the chair next to me. She takes my hand and looks at Beth with an expression that I recognize from babysitting: _'Be a help or leave.'_

Beth smiles at me and leaves the room, letting Andrea tell me whatever it is she needs to tell me. She sighs and strokes the hair out of my face. I haven't seen her look this grave since she _really_ told me about her sister. When she told me the story of their life, how they grew up, all of those personal things that make you cry.

"Hershel figured out what was wrong. You're going to be fine, but… you…" she takes a deep breath and says "The bleeding was caused by a miscarriage."

Miscarriage.

I know what that word means. I've heard it plenty of times. But it doesn't… connect. It doesn't fit. The word miscarriage does not pertain to me. Not even a little bit. I haven't had a… _miscarriage_.

But… I _have_. Andrea just told me so. That's why I was bleeding. I had… a miscarriage. I was carrying the baby of one of those men.

Without even thinking about it I lean over the side of the bed and puke my guts out. After all of my blood loss, Hershel had left a trash can in here, but it's still disgusting.

When I feel adequately horrendous I lean back into the bed and close my eyes. I don't want to cry. I don't want Andrea to see me cry. I don't have any reason for it, either; I just don't want her to.

Andrea takes my hand and I grasp it.

This is different than the pain I felt from losing my cousins, different from the disgust I felt when I realized what those men did to me. It's a bit of both. A strange combination that just makes me want to tear my heart out.

I'm disgusted that any piece of those creatures that did this to me was inside of me… growing.

And then there's the part of me that remembers that it was still a baby. Just a little baby that had no control over its parentage, and now it's dead. It never got to see the sun, or take a breath… it never got to live.

"I don't know about your life," says Andrea quietly after I simmer for a few more minutes. "I don't know how you feel right now, so I don't know what part of all of this makes you the most upset. But I do know that this is probably the last hurdle… and you can get better now. You can be running around, kicking ass, and taking names in a few weeks."

That last bit almost gets a half-smile out of me. Andrea's a good talker. She was a lawyer back before the end of the world, and it shows when she's trying to make me feel better. She's used her lawyer-talk to try and get me to talk a few times. Those were pretty much her only failures.

"Do you want anything?" Andrea asks.

I shrug, hold her hand tighter, and tuck myself farther into the sheets. I just want to sleep right now… I don't usually have nightmares.

Andrea still holds my hand as I drift off, which is comforting because I can't get that unknown baby off of my mind. I wonder all sorts of things, like whether it would've been a boy or a girl, or what I would've named it, or if I would've survived long enough to have it.

And then I remember a thought about my cousins that I had weeks ago and I realize that I was wrong then.

But now it's official: All of my babies are dead.


	3. The Beginning of A New Life

Lori still thinks that I'm going to kill myself.

I'm not.

I promise.

I know that she thinks that when she starts serving me meals without knives and removes the mirror in my bathroom. As if, were I determined to actually off myself, that would be a deterrent. I actually make a game out of figuring out ways I could still do it, even with all the precautions Lori's put up. For instance, I could hang myself with a noose made of my own clothes.

It's a morbid game, but what isn't morbid anymore?

The days pass by and I get better. I still don't speak, but I feel better. I read, I sit on the porch, take some naps, read some more. It's a somewhat monotonous way to live my life, but it's peaceful, and peaceful is what I need these days.

Unfortunately, my silence turns out to be quite a deterrent to any friendships. Andrea's stopped trying to get through to me and Carl's stopped visiting. I don't really blame either of them. It must be hard trying to work with someone who's stubbornly refusing to do so. I know what that's like; I used to babysit.

I mean, I _am_ getting better, but they don't know that because I don't_ talk_ to them.

I honestly have no idea _why _I refuse to talk. Maybe it's something psychological. Maybe I'm too stubborn. Maybe I just have nothing to say. You'd think I'd understand what's going on inside my own mind, but apparently not.

T-Dog still visits me. He reads me the Bible more because he seems to have run out of things to talk about. The only new development is that something went wrong when Rick and Shane tried to move Randall, and he's still on the farm. But I don't linger on that; I just listen to T-Dog read to me. Lucy used to read the Bible to me.

I'm not sure if I still believe in God after everything that's happened. I always said that God gives us bad because without bad we can't see the good when we get it. But there's not too much good to notice in a world like this, so I'm not sure if my philosophy holds up.

Once again, I decide not to linger on that, and just listen to T-Dog read to me. I have too much internal conflict already to think about things I was conflicted on beforehand.

I try to draw a bit. Unsuccessfully, because I'm a terrible artist, but it's a bit therapeutic. I draw rather unfortunate-looking pictures of all my dead friends and family members. T-Dog still asks me who they are, and I still don't answer. Eventually he gives me a folder to tuck the drawings into.

It occurs to me after a while that I don't know what day it is anymore. Before all of the… _bad stuff…_ I used to keep a count. I drew calendars on the inside of the bunker and tally marked my arms on the days when we were running. Now I just don't know. I don't even have an estimate of how long I've been on this farm because the days are bleeding together.

On another bland, indiscriminate day, as I'm drawing a very terrible picture of Julie, a new face makes an appearance in my room.

The man is older, maybe the same age as Hershel. He has white hair, a beard, a friendly face, and a really worn hat.

"Hey there," he says with a smile. I give a half-smile back. "I want to talk to you about something."

I sit up and prop myself against the pillows. The man approaches and sits down in the chair next to my bed. He nods at the picture in my lap. "Who's that?"

I raise my eyebrows at him. Does he really expect me to answer? He smiles and says "Sorry, had to give it a shot. My name's Dale." He extends a hand and I shake it. From what I've been told, Dale is nice.

"I know that T-Dog told you about Randall, the boy we captured…" he begins. I nod. Dale takes a breath and says "They want to kill him—the group. And I don't. I'm trying to gather people, get a majority that says we shouldn't."

I nod slowly, processing the information. They're going to have a vote, and Dale wants me to vote not to kill this boy.

That implies that I'm part of their group, and I suppose I should be happy about that. But the problem in the moment is that Dale wants me to vote with him on a topic I know nothing about.

So I give him a look. I think he understands.

"If we kill this boy, it changes the group," he explains "We lose all that we had of what once was. I don't want us to go to hell along with the rest of the world. This boy hasn't done anything to us, and we want to kill him because we're scared. I just… I just want to save his life. I just want you to support me here."

Which means I have to vote. Which means I _get _a vote. Once again, I should be happy about that, but I'm more suspicious.

Why do I get a vote? They know nothing about me; I haven't even met everybody here. They haven't sent Dale in here to inform me of this. Dale came here to tell me this on his own.

Is he only giving me a vote because his side of the argument is losing?

"The meeting's tomorrow morning, if you want a say."

I nod without thinking. I always want a say. The only reason I ever got in trouble at school was for wanting a say. But really… do I want a say if it's just a last ditch effort?

Answer, yes.

At least that part of the old me is still alive.

* * *

The next morning is strange. I feel an inexplicable tumbling in my stomach that takes me a few moments to recognize as nervousness. I'm nervous about this big group meeting.

When I enter the room hanging on T-Dog's arm, I think people are surprised. Everybody looks at me, I mean. I suppose nobody really expected me to get out of bed.

The man in the middle of the room, who I assume is Rick, gives me a nod. I sit down in an armchair next to where a very gruff-looking man is leaning against the wall. Maggie smiles at me. Andrea too.

Then everybody starts talking.

"So how do we do this? Just take a vote?"

"Does it have to be unanimous?"

"No, majority rules."

"Well, let's—let's just see where everybody stands, and then we can talk through the options." Rick says this, and the chatter stops for half a breath before one of the other people I haven't met says "Well, where I sit, there's only one way to move forward."

"Killing him, right?" Dale growls "I mean, why even bother to even take a vote? It's clear which way the wind's blowing."

"Well, if people believe we should spare him, I wanna know." Rick says.

"Well, I can tell you it's a small group—maybe just me and Glenn, Dawson." Dale replies.

Everybody looks at me for half a second, then at Glenn, who looks uncomfortable as he begins talking. "Look, I—I think you're pretty much right about everything… all the time, but this—"

"They've got you scared!" Dale accuses.

"He's not one of us!"

_Neither am I._ But I don't say that. That would be pretty self-deprecating. Or possibly helpful, but I don't feel like giving up my silence on that slim chance.

"And we've—we've lost too many people already…" Glenn finishes his statement there. Strangely, that helps me make my decision.

I think about shooting my mother, the mangled mess that was Fiona's arm, the hundreds of dead _things_ I've seen that used to be people.

I don't want to kill this person, no matter what stories I've been told about his group, because too many people have died. We can't keep killing each other all the time.

Now that I've made the decision, I ignore the rest of the talk. They're discussing what to do if they did keep him alive—who would watch him? How would we feed him? What if we trust him and he runs back to his group?

But talk escalates. They talk about how they would kill him, what they would do with the body. Dale gets very mad very fast.

"This is a young man's life, and it is worth more than a five-minute conversation! Is this what it's come to? We kill someone because we can't decide what else to do with him? You saved him and now look at us!" The person on the side of life usually isn't so hostile.

Shane yells. Dale yells. Rick interrupts. Andrea reasons. Dale is still upset.

And I've decided that I don't want this boy to die.

_"Shut up!"_ I yell. My voice is hoarse, so it's not exactly as loud as I had intended, but it gets my message across. I haven't talked in a month and I'm angry as all hell. _Listen to me!_ "Too many people have fucking _died_! My parents are dead and my cousins are dead and my baby is dead and I'm tired of _everybody. Fucking. Dying!_" I stop talking. That was stupid, and now everyone is looking at me. "Just… don't." I finish lamely.

I put my head in my hands and everything is silent for a moment before Rick says "If anybody else wants the floor before we take a vote…"

There are a few more moments of silence before Dale starts desperately "You once said that we don't kill the living."

"Well, that was before the living tried to kill us." Rick responds.

"But don't you see? If we do this, the people that we were—the world that we knew is dead. And this new world is ugly. It's harsh. It's—it's survival of the fittest! And that's a world I don't want to live in, and I don't—and I don't believe that any of you do. I can't. Please. Let's just do what's right." More silence follows Dale's words. "Isn't there anybody else who's gonna stand with me?"

I realize that this is the vote. Right now it's me and Dale versus the rest of the group. Two votes for the kid's life.

"He's right." Andrea speaks up. "We should find another way."

Three votes for the kid's life.

"Anybody else?" Rick asks.

There's a long silence that's louder than any shouting. I chance a look up and find that most everybody seems to have become incredibly interested in their hands or their laps or their shoes.

Finally, Dale breaks the silence. "Are y'all gonna _watch_, too? No, you'll go hide your heads in your tents and try to forget that we're slaughtering a human being. Well I won't be party to it." With those words, Dale makes for the door before pausing in front of me. No—not me, in front of the man next to me, who I realize with a start is Daryl, the man who saved my life. Dale leans over and whispers something I can just make out.

"This group _is _broken."

* * *

I sit on the porch after the meeting.

I don't think anybody is at all content right now. It could be the fact that Dale is apparently nowhere to be found or the fact that I actually _talked_ (which apparently means that things are serious), but there's a general air of discomfort.

Carl, at least, is simply ignorant of what's going on around him. He brought me a glass of water and a deck of cards when he realized I was out here. He seems upset about something, but he doesn't have that awkward guilt about him that everyone else does.

"Mom said you talked during the meeting." Carl informs me.

Yeah, I broke my silence for nothing. I might as well have not even gone to the meeting because Randall is going to die anyway. And it's stupid, useless killing. Totally pointless, and why didn't anybody listen to me?

Because I acted stupidly. I lashed out like the child I'm constantly pretending not to be.

Finally, I shrug and place a card—two of hearts against Carl's queen of clubs. He captures both. "She said that you yelled."

Nine of spades against seven of diamonds; I win this one.

I shrug once more.

Jack of clubs against ace of spades; Carl gets this one.

"She said you cussed."

I slam down another card—ten of diamonds—and slump back in my chair. What I said in that meeting was probably the dirtiest thing that ever came out of my white, God-loving, virginal mouth.

"Sorry." Carl mutters and places another card. I don't look at it. After a few moments, Carl says "War." I look down at the table to see that Carl's laid down a ten of spades. I look at Carl, who's looking sheepish. I give him a half-hearted smile.

This is war.

_Don't think about the kid that's about to die._

* * *

I spend all day on the porch with Carl. Around midday Patricia brings us some lunch, and when we're done eating Beth brings out Monopoly and we play with her and her 'husband' Jimmy.

Of course, Beth and Jimmy aren't _actually_ married; they're only sixteen. Jimmy just makes a joke out of it, because they're stuck on this farm together for the rest of the foreseeable future, they might as well be married. We all laugh at the joke, but I see Beth frown when she thinks the rest of us aren't looking.

I suppose that even if she gets along with her new husband, it's difficult knowing that you don't have all that many options.

After Monopoly—which Carl wins—I notice that a bunch of the men are headed to the barn.

It's happening.

I try not to think of it.

I fail.

Carl notices. "Do you wanna go inside?" he asks. "It's getting dark anyway. Patricia said we could eat dinner with them."

I shrug.

"Or we could eat in your room, and keep playing cards. If you want…" Carl trails off awkwardly and stares at me. I hardly notice. I just see Rick headed for the barn. Headed out to kill that boy.

"He deserves to die." says Carl suddenly.

I look up and give the boy a confused look. He meets eyes with me and says seriously "Don't worry. He deserves it."

I open my mouth and close it, then open it again and make the beginning of the word "What?" It just sounds like "wh."

"I saw him," Carl explains "He tried to trick me into letting him go. But you should've seen the look on his face—he's not trustworthy. He'll kill us if he gets the chance."

I turn my head away. Carl's opinion has nothing to do with how that boy looked and everything to do with this world. Carl's what? Eleven, twelve? This world is changing the way that he looks at things. He's growing up into a kill-or-be-killed way of life, and it's making him cold.

It's making him cold like it was making me cold. I snapped at my cousins every day. I hardly concerned myself with their feelings. If we had run into a person then, even if they needed help, would I have gone to that person?

No, I would have left them. I know that I would have.

What happened to me… in a strange way, it fixed me. It broke me and then fixed me up in a different shape, and I'm not cold anymore.

But Carl isn't broken. He's just cold.

I set down my hand of cards and stand up. I'm done with this right now. I can't look at Carl right now. If any of my cousins are alive, they're turning into _that_. Any child in this world is turning into _that_.

So what, do I not count as a child? Maybe I passed that when I got broken. Or maybe I'm still holding onto that bit of my past self that stubbornly termed herself as more mature than everybody else. Either way, it doesn't really matter.

Carl doesn't follow me into the house, and I'm grateful.

I don't head back to my room. It's starting to turn into a cave.

Hershel's sitting at the dining table, reading the Bible. I walk over slowly and sit across from him. He looks up, smiles at me, and starts reading aloud.

Apparently that's a thing now. Let's read Dawson the Bible. I close my eyes and sigh lightly. I shouldn't be cynical about that.

I sit with Hershel for a few minutes. He seems to be enjoying reading to me, and it's better than sitting in my room, staring at the ceiling, and stewing in my own misery.

_Don't think about the boy that's about die._

_Don't think about that._

What was the trick that Grandma taught me? _Don't think about puppies and kittens. Don't think about puppies and kittens._

Except that doesn't really work anymore because most puppies and kittens have probably had their guts ripped out.

Great, that's worse the image of Randall dying.

And then I hear a scream.

It isn't laughter or crying, it's an I-am-about-to-be-eaten-by-a-monster scream, which is something I'm all too familiar with.

I stand up quickly, which is a bad idea because I still get dizzy when I do that, but Hershel stands up too and says "Stay here," in his gentle, fatherly tone.

I nod and sit back down. The scream was far off; I'm not in any immediate danger.

Hershel leaves and after a moment I pick up the Bible. I open it to the first page. I read the first few familiar words, and then the ones that I always liked more than the others: _God saw the light, and it was good._

I always thought that those words were simple and to the point. Light is good. Be good. Live in the light.

Living in the light's a bit tougher than it used to be.

A gunshot.

I stand up quickly again and have to grasp the table for support. What is going on out there! The gunshot was just as far off as the scream… maybe a stray Dead-One wandered onto the property and they just shot it?

I _hope _that's all it is.

God, I _really_ hope that's all it is.

Maybe the scream was Randall. Maybe they came to kill him, and when he knew it was coming he started screaming.

That image is worse than the puppies and kittens.

When the dizziness fades, I walk out onto the porch. There are a bunch of people up in the field. Did Randall escape and they shot him?

_God._

There's another gunshot and someone yells. This yell is crying; I'm sure of it.

I stand on the porch, watching everybody in the field for a few minutes before they all start dispersing. Some of them linger, and some of them head for the little camp outside the house that most of the group stays in. Maggie and Beth are the first back to the house.

Beth is crying. Not loud crying like I heard after the second gunshot, but crying nonetheless. Maggie is holding her as they walk. She sees me and gives me a grim look. She shakes her head. _Don't ask. Not right now._

Patricia's next, and she looks more shell-shocked than anything else. She sees me and says two simple, solemn words.

"Dale's dead."


	4. The Beginning of Chaos

It's ironic, really, that Dale would die right after the whole moral upheaval. So now, to honor Dale's memory, we have to keep the morals.

I go to the funeral. It's my first time _really _outside, and of course it's depressing as all hell. Rick talks about all of those morals that Dale had, and how we have to prove that this group is _not _broken, in addition to talking about what a great man Dale was.

I don't think I realized before how much internal conflict there was with this group that I've fallen into. I've had no reason to encounter this conflict before, so why should I have known? But now that I do, it's evident in every dark look one person throws another, one slightly more emphasized word in a sentence. Everything is tense and tilting on edge.

I guess I'm lucky to be the sick girl.

T-Dog eventually explains to me how everything happened. Dale was on a walk to clear his head after the whole Randall fiasco, and a Dead-One snuck up on him. Everyone else was too late in getting to him.

The first shot was a Dead-One.

The second shot was Dale.

It's been decided that everyone is moving into the house. The room that used to belong to me now belongs to Andrea and Carol as well. I don't mind, though. It feels a lot less like a cave with two other people sleeping around me. Besides, I like Andrea. I don't know much about Carol other than she lost her daughter, but she still seems pretty depressed so I think I'll leave it alone for the time being.

People are in defense mode now. The tough members (basically all the men and Andrea) are out and about, setting up defenses and killing any stray Dead-Ones that wander through. It seems like there was a hole in the fence somewhere along the way that a bunch of them just gradually trickled in through.

The cattle are moved, food and weapons are stashed in the barn, the basement, a makeshift watchtower.

Randall is still alive. I don't know how that happened, if Rick just couldn't do it or if the Dale fiasco happened before they could, but he's still alive. The new plan is to cut him loose again.

Considering last time apparently ended with getting mobbed by a horde of Dead-Ones, I'm hoping they're more careful this time.

Sharing a room with Andrea doesn't end up being quite as nice as I expected, though. Apparently she and Dale were close. I didn't know. She's almost as depressed as Carol, but she seems to vent her feelings by shooting things instead of moping around. I kind of admire that.

Shane hasn't been allowed in the house, so apparently he's still sleeping outside. I don't know _why_ he hasn't been allowed in, but given the remarks he gave during the meeting I imagine he isn't the most pleasant person to be around.

I eventually put on some real clothes. They belong to Beth, so they're too pastel for my taste and a bit too small, but they work and I feel like I'm being productive. Despite the heat, though, I'm still wearing long pants. Once the bandages were removed, my legs were covered in long, angry red scars that I'm not in any hurry to show off to anyone. There's a big one on my collarbone which is clear to everyone, and that's about as far as I want anyone to see. I suppose that's stupid, considering most people in the camp have already seen them, but modesty holds out even after the world's gone to hell in a hand basket.

I take a few walks outside. I'm accompanied by plenty of different people, but Carl is missing most of all. He won't play cards with me anymore even though I've actively tried to get him to play with me. He doesn't seem to be doing much of anything except moping around as much as Carol. I don't think that he and Dale were close, so maybe it's just the death touching so close to home.

Finally, a few days after Dale's death, Carl talks to me.

I'm sitting under a tree, reading a book that Maggie gave to me. Carl walks up and says "Dawson?"

I close my book and look up at him expectantly. He bites his lip and sits down. "If I tell you something, you won't talk about it, right?" I give him a _'duh'_ look. The only time I've talked since I got here was during the meeting.

He takes a deep breath and says "It's my fault that Dale's dead."

I sigh. I can't imagine why Carl would think that Dale's death is his fault, but I certainly understand survivor's guilt. I take his hand and pull on it, getting him to sit next to me. I put an arm around him and shake my head vehemently.

"It is, though," he mumbles against my shoulder. "The Walker that killed him… I saw it in the woods. It was stuck in the mud… and I was gonna kill it… but I chickened out…"

I sigh and rub Carl's back. "It's my fault," he mutters.

"It's not," I whisper. This is enough of a moment to talk. Carl needs the comfort. Maybe it's time I start talking, because frankly, I'm starting to annoy myself.

After a few moments, he pulls away from my hug. We sit in silence for a few moments and he picks some blades of grass out of the ground. Finally, he says "I stole Daryl's gun."

_"Why?"_ I whisper, shocked. I don't know all that much about Daryl, but from what T-Dog's told me the man is a firecracker wrapped in a leather jacket. Not the type of guy that you want to steal from. Most especially a gun of all things.

Carl shrugs and picks at the grass some more. "I was gonna use it on that Walker."

But he didn't.

"Still not your fault," I mutter.

"It is."

_"It isn't."_

"You don't know anything," Carl mutters. He stands up and stalks off, leaving me quite effectively baffled.

* * *

Carl's mad at me now.

He was right that I wouldn't tell anyone. Sure, I've talked a bit now, but not enough that I'd go out of my way to tell on him. That's not why he's mad at me. He's mad at me because I didn't sympathize with him. Or agree with him. Honestly, I don't know exactly what he expected me to do, but in a world like this it's easy to forget what kids are like. Fiona died because I forgot that.

To be honest, I don't mind all that much that Carl's mad at me. It's just one less person trying to get me to socialize. So, a new day finds me under the same tree, reading the same book, and definitely not being upset that the _stupid_ kid is mad at me. No, not upset at all. He can traipse around not talking to me all he wants—I am _not_ upset. No, not one little bit. I don't care and I am _not upset_!

I _might _be a bit upset about it.

I bitterly turn the page of the novel before I realize I've barely taken in the words on the last page. I used to understand complex economics and see the beauty in classic literature—now I can't focus on a hundred page novel because some idiotic twelve-year-old is mad at me. Go figure.

I turn back the page and try to go over the words to no avail.

"Dawson!" calls a voice I've only heard a few times. I knit my eyebrows together and look up at Shane. He's only a few yards away from me now and still walking, all bald and sweaty and seriously big-eared. Despite the ears, he's somewhat handsome, but I'm not all too inclined to think so while he's making people mad all the time.

I don't bother closing my book; I just look up at him and give him my 'what?' look.

"You should go back to the house, Carl's lookin' for ya." Shane explains.

That would make sense, except Carl isn't looking for me, because Carl's mad at me. _(Stupid kid.)_ And somehow, I don't see Shane as a messenger.

I shake my head. _No, he's not._

"Jus'—would ya jus' go inside? I'm gettin' Randall and ya don' need to see that."

I purse my lips, and then frown. There's nothing hostile in the words, but I can tell he's irritated that I didn't listen to his first instructions. Maybe he's irritated I'm here at all. I'm starting to see why nobody seems to like him. But what do I care if he wants me to go inside? It's getting to that time of day where it's too hot to sit out here in my scar-covering clothes, and I probably would've gone inside soon anyway.

I close my book and stand up, lean against the tree while my vision clears, then shoot Shane an irritated look before starting back to the house.

_I'm leaving because I want to,_ I think childishly.

I throw another look over my shoulder as I walk. I know that they're not cutting Randall loose until later today, but once again; what do I care? Maybe Shane wants to harass him or intimidate him before they release him. Maybe he's just getting him ready for the release. He wouldn't be stupid enough to kill the kid—everyone would know who did it and Hershel would likely kick him off the farm.

Prior to the end of the world, I would've asked Shane what he was doing, pestered him, and teased him until he got so mad he would've yelled at me.

These days it's just: _What do I care?_

Carl's nowhere to be found when I get to the house, which reinforces my idea that Shane really just didn't want me around. However, any suspicions I may have about the man are driven away when Beth and Jimmy break out Risk, which was my favorite game before the end of the world, and Patricia brings out a pitcher of lemonade, which is a treat I haven't had since then, either.

No, I really don't care whether or not Shane is punching some random guy while I can sip lemonade and conquer the entire continent of Asia.

* * *

I don't know how the peaceful day dissolved into what it is now.

It started after Risk with Beth and Jimmy.

Shane came storming up to the house, yelling about how Randall had gotten away with a gun and punched him in the face. His nose was bloody, and within a minute he had Rick, Glenn, and Daryl running into the woods with him.

I don't exactly understand how Randall was able to get away, but it's possible. My philosophy is _'There's always a way out.'_ There is. If Randall was clever enough, he could have escaped, and now he's running around with a gun, which can't be good for anyone.

Several hours pass, and it gets dark. Nobody's doing much of anything but wandering around and worrying. Eventually, Patricia gets me to go to sleep—

"Get up, now, Dawson, up!"

"Wha—"

"Up, now!"

Carol has a grip on my arm and is roughly pulling me out of bed. I hear lots of gunshots, some far off and some very close. "Carol, I don't—"

"There's a herd of Walkers coming, you need to put on your shoes right now, we're leaving." Carol explains quickly, tossing me my sneakers. She rushes to the window and looks out the window as I quickly tie my shoes with trembling hands. "We're gonna kill as many as we can, but we have to go, the house can't take a herd this big."

I nod as I tie the second knot. As soon as I'm done, Carol has my arm again and we're racing out. Lori, Patricia, and Beth are waiting on the porch and the latter two begin going as soon as they see us.

I get my first look at the herd.

This is bigger than the herd from Atlanta or the one that separated me from my cousins. This one fills up the entire field and spills out into the woods. I can't even begin to imagine how many Dead-Ones there are in this group. Definitely enough to tear down a house.

"Hershel! It's time to go!" Lori yells. I glance over and see Hershel firing off his shotgun with amazing accuracy. Lori yells again, but Hershel doesn't seem to hear and we start running across the yard. Carol lets go of my arm and I'm able to swerve away from a small group of Dead-Ones coming towards us, but I hear Patricia and Beth scream.

_No, no, don't think about them._

I have to turn again to get away from another small group, and when I turn I realize that there's another group behind me. And a wall to my side—I'm boxed in.

Carol is still beside me, and she picks up a stick, but oh God this bad, and—

_BOOM!_

Oh, thank you Andrea!

The woman clears a path enough for us to run through, and we do just that. I don't stop to look back, and I don't think about what could happen to her for saving us. Just keep running.

Carol screams and waves her arms, and after a moment I see what she's waving at. Someone's on a motorcycle at the end of the driveway. I don't know who it is nor have I ever ridden a motorcycle, but they're my only hope right now.

As we get closer, I realize that it's Daryl, which doesn't make me any more confident about this situation, but he rides the bike to us, and Carol hops on without hesitation, so I suppose I should—

"Get on!" Daryl shouts over the roar of the bike.

I glance behind me—the Dead-Ones are a long way off. I look back and say "I've never—"

"Ain't got time fer this!" Daryl shouts, yanking me roughly to the bike and positioning me in front of him. He starts off before I even have a good grip, but he keeps hold of me and I'm able to stay steady.

I manage to get myself settled on the bike, but I feel uncomfortable sitting tucked into Daryl like this. I don't know the man at all, and I haven't been this close to a man since… well… ever. I don't count those three men that attacked me. But I just had a near-death experience, so I guess I don't have time to worry about how comfortable I am with the situation.

I lean back into Daryl's chest and exhale slowly. Carol likes Daryl. Daryl saved my life twice. Daryl is not going to do anything—especially not on a moving motorcycle running from our deaths.

So I need to chill out. I need to turn off my awareness and let myself think for a moment.

I think Patricia and Beth are dead. Andrea could be dead. I don't know what happened to Lori or Hershel. I didn't even see anyone else.

No. Stop thinking. Or think about Harry Potter, for God's sake.

I need to focus on the fact that right now, I'm alive. Daryl, Carol, and I are alive. I am not dead. Despite all the odds, I am still here.

_I am still alive._


	5. The Beginning of 'Normal'

**Author's Note:**

Two notes:

1: Dawson is never going to have a love interest. There will be no relationship-y love stuff going on in this story, unless it's pertaining to other people in canon relationships.

2: This chapter begins a plot point that I'm not entirely fond of, but is necessary for all sorts of stuff later on. However, I've received no criticism for it so far, so I'm taking a breather.

**End Author's Note.**

* * *

Daryl drives us off the farm and onto one of the main roads. We ride until my fingers and nose get cold, and then I see motion up ahead. There's a car ahead of us.

Daryl speeds up the motorcycle until the car is in clear view. It's some sort of green Hybrid looking thing, and I can't place who's in it, but I know that someone else has made it. We follow the car into the morning and onto the highway to what looks like a traffic jam. Daryl stops the motorcycle and I climb off. My visions blacks out for a moment and I almost fall, but Daryl catches me and I right myself.

Two people get out of the green car in front of us; it's Glenn and Maggie. That's a relief. Of course, anybody being alive at this point would be a relief, but there's something comforting about them being alive. They were the first people in the group I saw when I woke up.

Rick, Hershel, and Carl are already here. Carl grins at me, runs over, and wraps me in a tight hug, which surprises me. "Sorry," he mutters.

"Yeah," I reply, still a bit baffled. I pat his back a bit awkwardly and glance up at Rick, who's smiling at us, albeit grimly.

A pickup truck pulls up behind us; T-Dog, Lori, and Beth get out. Once again, relief. Two of the people closest to me are alive… and Lori. I shouldn't be so cynical about her, she's only pregnant. And I _am _happy that she's alive, but it doesn't make me dislike her any less. I'll try to just like the baby. Babies are nice.

Carl lets go of me immediately and goes to his mother, and when I look at Rick again he's smiling legitimately. Of course they're relieved to see Lori. Once again, I need to stop being so cynical. Even if I'm a judgmental brat there are still people that love her.

It seems like the whole group is here, but I have to do a headcount. There's me, Daryl, and Carol. Rick, Carl, and Hershel were here already. Maggie and Glenn, T-Dog, Lori, and Beth. That's who's here. There are people missing.

_Patricia._

Now I remember running with Carol, Beth, and Patricia, and hearing that God-awful scream when we were separated. That must have been her.

_Jimmy._

Jimmy was nice. The last time I saw him was when I pummeled him in Risk. I don't know what he did when the herd attacked—maybe he's still alive and just didn't think to come here. Heck, I don't know why everybody thought to come here. Maybe it was the emergency plan or something.

_Shane._

Last time I saw him was when he and Rick went after Randall. Even if he was rude and kind of set off my internal alarms, I'm upset. Surprised, too. He seemed tough. Did he and Rick just get swallowed by the herd or something?

_Andrea._

I know what happened to Andrea. Andrea is dead. Andrea saved me and Carol, and now she's dead. Andrea who had lost everybody and was trying to get me through my own problems… she's dead.

At least she went out like a hero.

So that's that. We lost Patricia, Jimmy, Shane, and Andrea.

At least I assume. I know that Patricia and Andrea are dead, but I don't know about Shane and Jimmy. Either way, there's eleven of us now.

Despite the situation, I almost smile, because I realize that I'm thinking of the group as 'us.' I'm one of them now. However bad things are, I have a place again.

How adolescent of me.

"Where'd you find everyone?" asks Rick, looking relieved.

"Well, those guys' tail lights zigzaggin' all over the road figured he had to be Asian, drivin' like that." Daryl jokes.

"Good one," mutters Glenn. I can see his smile, though.

"Where's the rest of us?" someone asks. I'm too relieved to care who. "Shane? Andrea?" Andrea…

"She saved me and Dawson," says Carol "Then I lost her."

"We saw her go down." says T-Dog.

"Patricia?" Hershel asks.

"They got her too," sobs Beth into her father's arm "Took her righ' in fron' o' me. I was—I was holdin' onto her, Daddy. She just—what about Jimmy? Did you see Jimmy?"

Beth is in a state of complete panic and desperation. She knows that Jimmy's gone; she just needs to hear it from someone else.

"He was in the RV," Rick reports solemnly "It got overrun."

Beth immediately starts sobbing. Poor girl.

"You definitely saw Andrea?" Rick asks.

"There were Walkers everywhere." Carol offers.

"Did you see her?" Rick asks again. Carol shakes her head. He looks at me and I shrug uncomfortably.

"I'm gonna go back," Daryl says suddenly.

"No." says Rick firmly.

"We can' jus' leave 'er!" Daryl exclaims.

"Don't be stupid." I mutter "If she's still there she'd dead." I'm pretty sure that she's dead. Sure, it's possible she isn't, but if she isn't then there's no way we're going to find her again, and there's no use looking for her.

Then I realize how callous I just sounded. "Sorry…" I mumble, biting my lip.

There are a few moments of awkward silence until Rick starts talking again. "We gotta keep moving. There have been Walkers crawling all over here."

"I say head east." says Daryl "Stay off the main roads. The bigger the road, the mo' Walkers, mo' assholes like this one." He points out a Dead-One ambling towards us. "I got him."

"Wait!" I yell, louder than I intended. I put a hand over my mouth. Daryl lowers the crossbow that he was holding and the group looks at me curiously.

_"God,"_ I whisper through my hand, staring at the Dead-One still ambling slowly towards us. "That's… _Oh!_"

I look away, crouch down, and cover my face. "The hell, Dawson?" says Daryl angrily. I uncover my eyes and watch the Dead-One limp closer.

It's slower than the others due to the big chunk torn out of its leg. There's also a bite in its shoulder which caused its entire shirt to be covered in blood. Its face is pretty much untouched though, except the normal decay and the glazed over eyes. I can still see the person it used to be…

I want to just watch it, but it's getting close and I can tell it's putting everybody on edge. That_ I'm_ putting everybody on edge by doing this.

"Kill him," I whisper. Immediately, a bolt flies from behind me and hits the dead creature in the head. Without hesitation, I march over to the dead body, stoop down, and shove my hand in its pocket.

"Dawson—"

"Just wait!" I cut Rick off. I pull my hand out of the creature's pocket and move to the other one. "C'mon…" I whisper. I can feel the tears pooling in my eyes. Please be here, please—thank you, God!

I triumphantly pull the keychain out of the dead creature's pocket and stand up, examining it. It's covered in blood and dirt, but I can still see the design… _SeaWorld… Shamu_. I smile wryly and a tear escapes.

"Dawson," says Rick gently. I didn't realize he was in front of me, and I jump slightly. "We need to move. Are you alright?"

I nod. "Just… someone I knew."

He nods grimly and everybody starts getting on with their tasks. Carol takes my hand, leads me to a car, and I sit down without even looking. I just keep staring at the stupid little keychain; such a worthless little thing that cost me barely a dollar. I promised to bring back souvenirs when I went to California with my parents. I can't believe he actually kept it through all this.

"Who was he?" Carol asks.

"Doesn't matter," I mumble. "Just glad I have this."

As we drive away, I get a glimpse of the dead body that was once my cousin Drew.

* * *

I fall asleep as we're driving, and wake up when we stop. One of the cars has run out of gas, so we decide to set up camp for the night along the road. The men are talking about what to do next, and I almost want to join them, but I don't think that's really my job right now.

Right now, I'm injured and barely talking, and I'm still exhausted.

I curl up next to Carl and feel drowsy almost immediately. How long was I awake before I was in the car? Twelve hours? No… I took a nap. Maybe the better question is what my sleep to awake ratio would be. Well, I'm too tired to do any math, so that's clearly an indicator.

When I wake up, I'm not curled up around Carl like I was before. He's still there, but he's a good foot or so away, tucked around his mother. Someone put another blanket over me, so I'm not as cold as I would've been.

I sit up and look around. Is it sunset? No… the light isn't the right color… it's sunrise. Lord, my sense of time is all sorts of messed up right now. I don't even know how many days it's been since I left the farm, and that's saying quite a bit since it only feels like a few hours ago.

I wrap my blanket around me and look around. Everybody's still asleep in the makeshift beds. The fire is dying. Where are we, anyway?

No idea.

There's an old wall on one side and the road on the other.

That's really helpful, Dawson, good job.

"Dawson?"

I look at Carl, who's head is peeping up from under the blanket he's sharing with Lori. "Hey," I say, smiling as brightly as I can.

He crawls out from the warmth and scoots over to me. I open the side of my little nest and let him in. It's much warmer with him here. "Morning," I whisper.

"Thanks for not saying good," Carl replies.

"I'm not sure if that was sarcasm or not," I mutter.

The boy shrugs. "Were you really asleep last night?" he asks. I turn to him and knit my eyebrows together. He sighs. "Dad… lost it."

Rick lost it?

"What?"

"He started yelling…" Carl falters. I should be upset that he's upset, but I'm more happy that he's showing any kind of emotion. Emotion is good, even if it's a bad emotion. "He said that… that this isn't a democracy anymore—and—he killed Shane."

"Holy shit…" I mutter without even thinking. When did I start cussing in everyday conversation? With a twelve-year-old no less. As if that matters! _Rick_ killed Shane. If you had asked me, I would have said it would be the other way around. But Rick, who struck me as a good guy, who's Carl's father—Rick killed Shane?

"He said that it was self-defense," Carl mutters "But… I'm not sure I believe it."

I wrap and arm around the boy and let him lean into me. "It'll be okay," I whisper "He's your father, he'd never hurt you."

Across the campfire, someone bolts to a stand in barely two seconds. Daryl. He throws me a dirty look, which baffles me, and stalks off. I watch him go. I want to know why he looked at me like that. What did I do to him? I also need to talk to him…

"What's wrong with him?" I ask.

Carl shrugs. "Same thing that's wrong with all of us."

"I need to thank him." I say.

"Why?"

"He saved my life." I explain "He could've left me… but he didn't. I need to say thank you."

Carl is silent for several minutes, in which time the sky goes from grey to light blue. Finally, he says "There's one more thing."

"What?"

"Something else that Dad said… did anybody tell you about the CDC?"

I nod. T-Dog told me about that misadventure. A toned down version, I'm sure, but I got the gist; they got to the CDC looking for safety, only to find a crazy scientist who wanted to blow them all up to spare them anymore suffering. Almost noble, except for the killing part.

"Well, the scientist…" Carl says "Jenner. He told my dad something before we left, and he didn't tell any of us what it was until last night..." I nudge him lightly and he continues "We're all infected. We all have the virus, whatever it is. And no matter how we die, we're gonna turn into one of those things."

I blink and stare forward.

Disturbingly, that makes sense.

The virus, the disease, the illness, whatever you want to call it—it was everywhere all at once. It didn't break out somewhere, it was just _everywhere_. It started in the places with high populations and trickled out.

That's how Hawaii was declared safe one day and abandoned the next. Why those high density countries in Southeast Asia fell apart so quickly. Everybody that died came back. Every heart attack, every car accident, everything… all at once there were a million monsters ready to ruin the world.

I don't want to scare Carl any more than he clearly already is, so I say the first sarcastic thing that comes to my mind. _"Fabulous."_

* * *

Most of the day is spent in silence. T-Dog eventually gets more fuel and we get back on the road, but until then the only sounds are the crackling of the dying fire and the crunch of leaves underfoot.

We find a country house a bit off the road and Rick lays out a plan that becomes the norm for the next few months.

"Maggie, Glenn, you go 'round back and make sure everything's safe back there. Daryl, T-Dog, we're gonna clear the house. The rest of ya stay here." Carl and Hershel get guns. Beth, Lori, Carol, and I get everything ready to bring into the house. I almost feel indignant at the fact I've been given this job, but they have no reason to believe I'm anything other than a delicate little girl. They don't know that I'm a good shot. Actually, the way I get lightheaded every time I so much as stand, I'm probably not too much of a good shot at the moment.

We wait for a few minutes before Rick opens the door and motions for us to come in.

This house, while pretty, smells like most things in this world, which is death. I get a fleeting glimpse of T-Dog, Glenn, and Daryl dragging bodies out of the backdoor before Maggie and Rick direct us into the living room.

Like at the campfire, there's lots of tension in the air. Now that we're in an enclosed space, the tension is almost tangible.

We spend most of the time setting up little beds and eating our food for the day. Daryl shoots a squirrel out back. Glenn and Maggie offer to go on a run tomorrow. Lori and Carl sit as far away from Rick as possible. Hershel finds a map of the area and starts making marks on it that I don't understand.

I find _To Kill a Mockingbird_ on the shelf in the living room and start reading.

I've read it before, so I know that it has nothing to do with killing a mockingbird, but this time I realize something that gives me a few moments of amusement.

The characters all talk like Daryl.

And I frown.

Dear God, I hope I'm not developing some sort of insecurity-fuelled obsession with my savior. That sounds like an episode of Dr. Phil. And a good one, too, with all sorts of crazy twisted crap that people pretend don't interest them.

Please. Dr. Phil is nothing. At this rate my life could be a horror movie.

Carl eventually convinces me to look for something to do upstairs. The first door holds a master bedroom. The second holds linens—I grab several blankets and towels and hand them to Carl to take downstairs.

I head into the next room, which appears to be a child's bedroom. There are lots of toy cars and an unmade bed with a Spiderman spread. There's bound to be a game somewhere in here.

I check under the bed to find nothing; that's a surprise in a boy's room. The desk holds nothing but drawings and old spelling tests. I open the closet—

_"CARL!"_

I kick out, lose my balance, fall backwards, reach for a gun that I don't have—the rotting hand reaches out and I have to pull my hand back and kick my knee out once more to keep from getting scratched. It tries to bite my leg and I roll away.

_"CARL! MAGGIE!"_

It tries to bite me again and I have no further to roll away. I kick out and scramble away once more but I can feel its jaws on the outside of my jeans—

Thunk.

An arrow punctures the Dead-One's skull and it collapses on top of me. I throw it off me and scramble away, right into someone's legs. I yelp and when I look up, Daryl's looking down on me with a somewhat irritated look on his face. His crossbow is out. He just saved me again.

"Thanks," I say breathlessly.

He grunts in reply and extends a hand to help me up, which I take. When I'm on my feet, Daryl bends down and pulls the arrow out of the Dead-One's skull. I watch with a sort of morbid fascination. He seems completely unfazed.

"Thanks for saving me the first time," I add.

He grunts again as he wipes the arrow off on his jeans; once again, unfazed, even though I can't imagine deliberately wiping brain matter on my clothes.

"Did you kill those men?" I blurt out. That thought never even occurred to me until just now. Where did that come from?

Daryl actually looks at me this time. My stomach lurches, and I know that psychology is screwing me over, making me feel butterflies for a very mean man who's probably about thirty years older than me. Thank you, psychology, thank you very much.

He watches me for a few moments as though sizing me up, and then replies "Yeah, I did. Didn' even see me comin,'" he pauses and adds "Thought 'choo was Sophia."

I nod. I feel like the deaths should console me, but I don't feel any different. I just kind of want Daryl to stop staring at me like that.

Finally, I look down and he moves away from me. "Ya should change outta that," he says as a parting remark.

I knit my eyebrows together and then look at my attire; a ripped, dirty, blood-stained nightgown paired with hiking boots. The model of post-apocalyptic fashion, I am.

I glance at the door Daryl just walked out of and then at the corpse lying a few feet from me. "Hormones and psychology strike again," I mutter as though he can hear me.

I follow Daryl out the door, praying that whatever little flutter of a feeling this is will just go away.

Soon.


	6. The Beginning of Winter

My stomach is screaming at me, but I push the feeling away and focus on the conversation in front of me. It doesn't matter that I haven't eaten in nearly a day because we don't have enough food to spare. That's what this conversation is about.

"That's too dangerous," Rick is saying.

"All the Walkers will have cleared out by now," Glenn insists "And after what happened there, I doubt that other group would go back. It's the only place that we _know _has any supplies still intact."

"And if that other group had the same idea?" Rick asks.

"We'll scout it out first, make sure no one's there," Glenn promises. He looks at Maggie "We've already talked about it, she's on board." Maggie nods eagerly.

Rick sighs. "Fine, but if there's even the slightest sign of danger, you're coming straight back." Glenn and Maggie both nod as T-Dog walks up. "Found a local map," he says, laying it out on the table.

"Where are we?" Rick asks.

Maggie leans forward and looks at it. "About… here…" she points at a spot and moves her finger down the line that represents a road. "Yeah, here."

Rick leans over the map as well and starts tracing the roads "Alright, you take this route here, get you there and back before nightfall."

I glance at the map and see one little spot along the road that Rick pointed out. "Is that a cul-de-sac?" I ask, pointing at the little circle.

Maggie nods. "I remember that place. It's set back, has a good amount o' houses. We could take a detour through there, see if any o' the places have anythin' ta spare."

I smile and Rick looks at me, which shakes my confidence a bit, but finally he nods and says "Good idea. Do that."

Glenn and Maggie walk away to pack their travelling bags and I lean against the wall of the kitchen, picking at the sleeve of my new shirt. It's too tight and I don't like it, but it's the only thing in this house that wouldn't look like a bag on me. I glance back up and see Rick and T-Dog comparing notes about the 'shopping' list. The main item on the agenda is food, but there are other things that we need, too. And one particular item that I need very, very much.

"Rick?" I say quietly. Probably a bit too quietly, but he hears me and looks up. "Yeah?"

I bite my lip. "Um… I need you to add something to the list."

Surprisingly, Rick turns bright red and looks back down. "Maggie said she's taking care of all that." It takes me a moment to realize that Rick thinks I need tampons or something. I giggle. "No, that's not it."

"Then what is it?" he sighs.

"I um…" I really don't want to admit this. This is a weakness, but I need it. "I need an inhaler."

T-Dog jerks up. "You got asthma?" he asks, concerned.

I shrug. "My parents smoked," I mumble uncomfortably "It was just… a cough that never went away, and I haven't had an attack in a while, but…"

"It's alright," Rick says "I'll see that they get it."

I nod and back out of the room. I had no problem admitting I had asthma before the world fell apart, but now it's a weakness and it makes me a target. I could always grow out of it, but if I don't… well, one day the world is going to run out of medicine.

"Dawson?" says Carl. I smile at him. "Wanna play?"

He, Lori, Beth are sitting around the coffee table in the living room. Monopoly's out and Beth's sorting out the bills. "Sure," I say, sitting down next to the boy and waiting for Beth to hand me my money.

Glenn and Maggie walk back through the living room with backpacks slung over their shoulders. They walk into the kitchen, talk to Rick and T-Dog for a minute, and then walk back into the living room. Maggie comes over to give Beth a hug, and as she does I see Glenn shooting me a look. That's a sympathy look and I know it.

I bring my knees up to my chest and look away from Glenn. I really don't want the sympathy right now.

I don't look up again until Glenn and Maggie leave the room, and when I do Lori is looking me. "You alright?" she asks.

"Fine," I shrug. "Just… you know… worried…"

It's a vague answer, but it works. Lori nods and picks a Monopoly piece. "Let's play, then," she says.

Carl and Beth don't hold out in the game for very long, but Lori's pretty good. We're in a stand-off between the two biggest property sets when I finally land on her most expensive one twice in a row. I know I'm done for when I have to start mortgaging some of the properties.

"Thank you," Lori smirks as I hand over several hundred fake dollars. I have to count out the rest more carefully, and I hand those over too. "Thank you again."

I stick my tongue out and Carl laughs.

Daryl picks this moment to walk in.

Even though he's covered in Dead blood and toting two dead squirrels, my stomach does a few little flips. Is this really my teenage hormones catching up with me? Because they picked a pretty bad time. I would've been happy if they never showed up at all.

Daryl's really only in the room for a few seconds, but it's enough time for me to scold myself at least twenty times. I keep telling myself that it's just hormones or brain chemistry or something and that I should ignore it, and then the stupid little girly part of my brain giggles and says 'Oh, but look, he's so hot!' I tell it to shut up, but it's a persistent thing.

"Dawson, are you with us?" Lori asks, breaking my stare from the very empty kitchen doorway.

"Yeah, sorry," I say. My stomach rumbles and I add "Just thinking about those squirrels."

"Can't believe I'm saying it, but so am I," Lori replies.

I giggle, and realize that I actually like Lori. At least a bit. She's nice, and she cares about us, which are good qualities in a person, and rare ones at the end of the world.

"Ready for the death blow?" she asks, gesturing back at the Monopoly board.

"You wish," I chuckle.

I lose in less than ten more moves.

* * *

Glenn has no tact. None at all.

_Why_ did he feel the need to march into the living room and hand me that inhaler while most of the group was watching? Could he_ not _have waited for everyone to disperse? Now everybody knows that I might have to rely on a non-renewable resource to keep _breathing_.

Of course, I'm grateful. But I don't want to be the liability.

At least they also brought back food. A good amount of food, too. In addition to a few boxes and cans, they also found an apple tree with several dozen good fruits. It just goes to show how far the world's fallen when my stomach is satisfied by half a can of cold spaghetti and an apple.

Also, I don't think I've ever eaten so much of an apple before. I swear I gnawed on that thing until there was literally nothing left but the core. Back before the world ended I wouldn't have gone too far past eating my way around the skin.

After dinner, Beth throws all of the apple cores in the backyard, and says "Maybe in a few years, there'll be a tree there to save someone from starvin.'"

There's not really any reason to argue.

The sun eventually sets, which is now bedtime. It's almost funny that I always go to bed at what's probably only seven o'clock or so, but I remember reading that before electricity was invented, people always went to bed at sunset and woke at sunrise.

I get it now.

Everybody's retiring to their beds or sleeping bags, and just as I'm about to do the same, Carl says "Dad, can I take watch?"

I look over to where he's speaking with Rick. "Son, I don't think—"

"You barely got any sleep last night," Carl cuts in "T-Dog said you covered his shift. You need to sleep."

"Carl, I don't want you being out there alone—"

"Dawson can go on watch with me." Carl says proudly.

I raise my eyebrows when Rick looks at me, but I shrug. I actually took a nap earlier, so I should be fine until whoever has the second half of the night takes over.

Rick sighs, rubs a hand on his face, and says "Alright, but if you start to drift, you come get me right away, got it?"

Carl nods "Got it," he looks at me "C'mon."

And now I have watch.

I shake my head as I follow Carl up the steps to the second floor. One of the reasons we picked this house is the relatively easy access to the roof. It obviously wasn't designed like that, but one of the second story windows lets you climb out to the roof.

Carl and I climb out the window with ease and make our way to the flat part of the roof, where they've set up two foldable chairs and a small table. "Lovely spot," I mutter when I sit down. It's fully night out, but the moon provides enough light to see the street and yard. On the street side, we could probably see Dead-Ones coming from a mile or so away. In fact, there's one ambling around in the backyard across the street, but it's not worth getting to.

"So why did you want to take watch?" I ask.

"Why I said," Carl replies "My dad's exhausted, and I wanna help out." He pulls his gun out of his belt and rolls it over in his hands. It's a big gun for a kid, and I don't know where he got it, but it's very much his.

I shrug. "Fair enough. Why'd you drag me into it?"

"You're my friend."

"Why not Beth?" I ask "She's closer to your age." _Liar._ I just want to keep people thinking I'm an adult so they'll let me help decide things.

"Beth's too… soft."

I snort. "Because she hasn't been exposed to any of this stuff," I reply "Give it a few weeks, she'll be as tough as you."

"Doubt it."

I laugh at how childishly he said that. Carl nudges my leg with his foot and I giggle. A few minutes pass in silence and he asks "Do you think my mom is gonna be alright?"

_No._ "Yeah, of course." _Liar._

"What are we gonna do when the baby comes?" he asks seriously.

"Exactly what we've been doing," I reply "With a baby." And possibly without Lori. My mom never told me about how many patients she lost with her job, but I know that there were a good deal, even with modern medicine. Pregnancies can kill you. There's a fifty percent chance that either Lori or that baby will die.

We sit in silence for several minutes before Carl nudges me and points. Several Dead-Ones are shuffling down the street. Not enough that it would be a real concern, but while everybody's asleep…

"Should we warn them?" Carl asks worriedly.

I shake my head. "They're just walking by; they won't even notice us."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, just stay still and watch…" I mutter. We stay quiet for several more minutes as the Dead-Ones pass by. One of them glances at the house, but turns away and goes along on its way. We watch them carefully until they're down the street and out of sight, then we both sit back in our chairs and release breaths we didn't realize we were holding.

"I hate those things," I mutter.

Carl shrugs in response.

There's more silence, and all I can really think is that watch is boring. I don't know how long we've been out here or how long until we get to go back inside. Even if it isn't that much better in there, it's a bit cold out here.

Winter is definitely coming.

I don't even know what month it is.

"Who was that Walker on the highway?" Carl asks suddenly.

I turn to him and he's staring at me unwaveringly. I can tell he's not going to take no for an answer on this one. I sigh. "It was my cousin," I reveal, pulling my father's dog tags out from under my shirt. I added the SeaWorld keychain to it to keep the thing safe. "Drew. He was younger than you. This is what I took from his pocket."

Carl reaches out and puts a hand around the keychain. He examines it for a few moments and raises his eyebrows. "SeaWorld?" he asks as he releases the chain.

I shrug and tuck the chain back under my shirt. "They didn't get to go on many vacations, and I promised him a souvenir. That was like, two years ago though. I can't believe he kept it even through the apocalypse."

"So… the drawings that you did," Carl says slowly "Were those of Drew?"

"Drew," I shrug "Lucy, Julie, Fiona, Will, Jamie, my parents, their parents… everybody that I'm pretty sure is dead."

"I'm sorry," Carl says sincerely. "I'm lucky I have both of my parents."

I take his hand and squeeze it. "Thanks," I say "Will you promise me something?"

Carl knits his eyebrows together, but nods.

"Kids adapt to their surroundings," I explain "And your surroundings are death and danger and always having to be prepared to save your own life. So you're going to adapt to that. But don't go cold; don't get numb to all the death. It would be so easy for you to turn into a… a _psychopath_. Don't. Promise me that."

Carl's frowning, but he nods. "I promise."

I give him a smile and release his hand. "Good," I whisper. I look around the house and find that nothing's changed in the slightest. "So… when is our shift over?"


	7. The Beginning of Being Strong Again

"Lori, do you want some of mine?" I ask hesitantly.

Lori cranes her head around from the front seat and gives me a tight-lipped smile. "No, that's alright, sweetie."

I bite my lip and twirl my spoon around in the can of beans. "Really, Lori… I mean, you're pregnant… and…"

"I already had enough," Lori replies "And you need to eat, too."

"Right," I nod. Lori smiles again and looks back to the front. I take a bite of the beans and feel a bit guilty, even though there's really no reason too. Everybody got a can of food. That was the deal this morning. But there's something about eating the same measly amount as a pregnant woman that's really bothering me. Subjecting yourself to malnutrition is one thing, but a fetus can be seriously affected by it.

I take another guilty bite of beans.

We left the house this morning. Over the past few days, more Dead-Ones have wandered towards us than we're comfortable with, and Glenn and Maggie have scavenged all of the houses in the area. There was really no good reason to stay.

I'm not entirely sure where we're going now. Nobody is. We're just looking for another place that could be relatively safe for a week or two, somewhere that has _any _food at all. It's getting pretty hard to find a place like that. What we really need is another place like the farm—a place that we could grow our own food. But… somewhere safer than that; a completely walled in farm. Yes, that's very realistic.

The beans are gone before I know it, and I lean back into the seat with a small sigh. We've been in this car for about an hour and it's starting to feel like a road trip.

I have the middle seat, between Carol and Carl. I can't really lean my head against the window and stare bleakly out at the passing scenery. I lean my head on Carl's shoulder instead and stare at Rick and Lori's shoulders ahead of me.

I feel like the apocalypse should be more exciting, not that I'm actually complaining. I just never would have thought there would so much of something as normal as driving down the road.

The car horn behind us honks and Rick immediately slows us down. The honk means that we need to stop. They probably ran out of gas.

"May as well get out, stretch your legs," Rick says as he opens the door. The rest of us waste no time following suit, and within a few seconds I'm groaning as I stretch out my muscles. This is like the time my family drove to Florida, except I can't stretch out in the back seat.

"We're outta gas, man!" T-Dog calls as he climbs out of the truck he was driving.

Rick sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "We've got some extra," Rick calls back, beckoning T-Dog over. Hershel and Beth, who were riding with him, walk over as well and Hershel says "There's a Bed and Breakfast around here. Maybe we can take a look?"

Rick sighs again "Maybe…"

"I'm gonna take a bathroom break," I pipe up, pointing to the woods that's been bordering the road for pretty much as long as we've been driving.

"Have you ever killed a Walker with a knife?" Rick asks, pointing to the knife tucked into my belt. T-Dog gave it to me before we left the house this morning.

"Yes, _Dad_," I say with a half-hearted smile.

"Don't forget this!" T-Dog calls from where he's digging through the trunk of our car. He tosses me a roll of toilet paper, which I barely touch before it fumbles out of my hands. He bursts out laughing and after I retrieve it I stick my tongue out at him.

I hop over the ditch beside the road and walk into the woods, making sure the group is out of sight before I stop. One of the things that I miss most about the old world has to be indoor plumbing. Oh, how I miss indoor plumbing.

My hand is just on my belt when I hear some leaves crunching. I grab my knife with a resigned sigh. I haven't taken out a Walker (the term's growing on me a bit) since I met this group, and while I'm pretty confident, that _is _a long time. Over a month, I'd guess.

I remove the knife from my belt and turn, expecting a regular flesh-eating monster, only to be confronted with—

—a gun.

"Drop that knife, pretty," smirks the dirty little man behind it. "Nobody needs to get hurt here."

"You're the one pointing a gun at me," I reply, sounding quite a bit more confident than I feel.

"Can't be too trusting these days, can you?" the man says "Now drop the knife."

I bite my lip and convince my hands to let go of my only weapon. It clatters into the leaves with hardly any noise at all. I bite my lip harder. _The group is just past the trees…_

"Now, why don't you come on over here?" the man requests, still smirking.

"No."

"Oh, I think you will," he leers "Because if you don't, I'm gonna blow a hole through that pretty little head of yours."

I look at the man, size him up. He's not that bulky, and I think I could take him if it weren't for the gun. But… the gun is the only thing he has. He looks malnourished and he's very dirty. For all I know the gun isn't even loaded, but I'm not going to risk my life on that. However, the fact that he has so little supplies means that he's alone. And the fact that he has _only _that as his weapon means that he can't take out a Dead-One without a lot of noise.

"Or I could scream," I counter, a plan forming in my head.

"And what good will that do you?"

"Probably none," I shrug "Because you'd shoot me right away—but a scream and a gunshot? That'll bring every Dead-One for miles around this way. And considering your only weapons seem to be my knife and your gun, it's not going to do much good for you, either. So why don't we just go our separate ways?"

Once again, I definitely sound more confident than I feel, but I can see the gears working in this man's brain and he knows that I'm right.

"You don't need to die today, sweetheart," the man says "You just come with me… just for a while…_ then_ we can go our separate ways."

He takes a step forward and I growl out "If you touch me I will scream as loud as I possibly can, and you will get_ swarmed_."

The man frowns and I can see his fists clenching.

_Please don't shoot me. Please have some decent logic._

The idea of this man_ touching_ me is almost enough to cause me physical pain. I just… can't even think about it or entertain the idea. It is _not_ going to happen. I will not _let it_ happen.

"Bitch," the man mutters. He doesn't lower the gun, though. God, why are people so _stupid_? Why doesn't this idiot understand that if he just walks away that he'll live to see another day?

"I don't think you mean it," he says. He takes a step closer and I take a step back. "I think you're just a stupid, scared little bitch." Something moves in the trees. "And I think if I keep this gun on you, you're not gonna open your mouth." Something emerges from the trees. "You're not gonna do a damn thing."

"Is that so?" I ask, trying to keep my voice loud enough to cover up the footsteps of what's coming up behind the man. "For all you know I've been pondering suicide for the past few months."

The man snorts. "Please. If you wanted to die, you'd've offed yourself a long time before this."

"Maybe I lost someone recently," I counter. Come on… two more steps. "Maybe—" I drop to the ground and the man screams as a Walker bites into his shoulder. The gun drops without firing and I grab it, shuffling my way backwards across the forest floor as the man tries his best to fight off the Walker, but I know it's too late.

I shakily get to my feet as someone else bursts onto the scene and an arrow pierces in the Dead-One's skull, effectively killing it.

"Stupid _bitch_…" the man on the ground moans.

"What happened?" Rick asks angrily. He has a pretty scary look on his face. I definitely understand what upset Carl so much after we lost the farm…

"I—I… um…" I stutter "He—he had a gun on me, and I—I'm pretty sure he was gonna try an' rape me, b—but I kept 'im talkin' until the D—Dead-One came outta the forest and got 'im—"

I let out a shaky breath, lean against a tree, and close my eyes. God, I know how upset I am when I start to get a Southern accent going.

But really, I have plenty of reason to be upset. I don't _think_ that man was going to rape me; I _know_ he was going to. The world ended and all of the lowlifes of the earth got a free pass to do whatever the hell their twisted minds wanted.

"Hey, you're alright," says T-Dog. I feel him wrap his arms around me and I lean in, letting out a small sob. Why do people cry? Crying is so _stupid_. And yet, here I am, crying like an idiot.

"I'll take care of 'im," I hear Daryl mutter. "Piece o' garbage,"

_"No!"_ the man pleads in a high-pitched voice "No, no! Really! Please, I'm sorry! I wasn't gonna do anything to her, I promise!"

_"Shut up!"_ Rick barks.

My feet leave the ground and T-Dog tucks me into his arms. "I got her," he says "Do what you gotta do." He starts walking and I keep crying into his shirt, and then I hear everyone else asking what happened and I cry even harder.

_God,_ crying is stupid.

"Let's just put her in the car," says Lori.

"No, she can ride in our backseat," says Maggie "We have the space."

T-Dog starts walking again and I try to stop my crying. Another stupid thing about crying is that once you start it's hard to stop. I hate crying.

T-Dog adjusts me in his arms and then he's sitting me down in the backseat of Glenn and Maggie's little green car. "You alright, Dawson?" he asks. His hands are on my shoulders, holding me steady.

I open my eyes and look at him. The world is blurry through my tears, but I can see that he's kneeling down right outside the car. Also, I left a big stain on the front of his shirt. "I'll be okay…" I whisper.

He nods. "Just lay down for a bit, we'll be back on the road soon."

I sniff and wipe my eyes. "I didn't get to pee," I say with a watery chuckle.

T-Dog smiles and squeezes my hand. "Can you hold it 'til we stop again?"

I chuckle once more and nod. "Think so."

"Good," he says with a smile "Glenn and Maggie'll be back here in a minute. I gotta go see Rick, alright?"

I nod and back further into the car. T-Dog closes the door and I lay my head down on the seat, tucking my hands in. I can't believe that what happened to me before could have happened again. Easily. If I had said one thing different, made one wrong move, not sized him up properly… _it could have happened again._

I doubt that this man was as…_ twisted_ as the men that did it first, but he was still a scumbag. A lowlife that didn't deserve to be called a person. I know that Rick and Daryl put him down. Probably Daryl, because that's what he does.

Daryl. Once again I'm thinking of him when I really don't need to be. He saved me again… sort of. He burst in and killed that Walker, which I guess is saving me.

There's a sudden noise and I jump, then relax when I realize it's just Glenn and Maggie returning to the car. Glenn's the one in the driver's seat, and my head is resting on the right side, so I can see him pretty clearly when he turns his head to give me a half-smile. "You alright?"

I nod and close my eyes. "Do you know where we're going?"

"There's a Bed and Breakfast around here somewhere; we're gonna check it out."

Right, the Bed and Breakfast. Hershel mentioned that before I went to use the bathroom. I hope that it's safe there. At least for a little while.

I nod. "Drive on, then."


	8. The Beginning of A Psychopath

"You just… put your hand like this—"

"I know how to shoot a gun, Rick," I snap. Rick puts his hands up and backs a few steps away.

"Alright then," he says "Hit the target."

I purse my lips and look back at the target spray-painted on the side of a shed. Yes, I know how to shoot. I know very well how to shoot; my dad taught me how. I couldn't sing or dance or play music or do sports, but I could shoot a gun. That was how I spent my Sunday afternoons; shooting with my dad.

I'm a bit less experienced with a pistol, but I can work it well enough.

Aim, breathe, aim, steady, hold, pull—

_BOOM!_

Bull's-eye.

I lower the gun and turn back to Rick with a slight smirk on my face. He nods in approval and says "You can keep it. Just didn't want you having a gun if you didn't know how to work it."

I can keep this gun. The gun I took from the man that attacked me. I don't know if that's irony or just survival of the fittest, but either way I feel a bit uncomfortable. On the other hand, guns are hard to come by, and I'm not going to complain about getting one.

"We should get goin' now, 'fore the Walkers get here."

I nod and turn the safety back on my gun before tucking it into my belt. I look up and start to follow Rick but he holds up a hand and points behind me. "Shoot that one,"

I turn back around and look at the woods, where one snarling Walker is ambling out of the bushes looking for a meal.

A target is one thing, but I know that I'm a bit out of practice, and a Walker moves. But I can hit it; I know I can.

I pull the gun back out of my belt and turn the safety back off. Hold it up, pull back the hammer, aim, breathe, aim, hold, steady, pull—

_BOOM!_

It's not a perfect shot, but the Walker crumples to the ground and I let out a slightly relieved laugh. I turn back to Rick. "See? I can shoot."

He nods again. "Yeah, now let's go."

XXX

"Dad said you were a good shot," Carl says.

I nod absently as I examine the board. I could put my armies in Brazil and try to break through his hold on Africa. That would lose him some armies next round… but the hold is pretty good. I could completely wreck myself…

"Did you kill a lot of Walkers before we found you?"

I nod again and examine Asia. Neither of us have touched it; we both know that Asia is too hard to hold. But Carl wouldn't be expecting it and I have more territories there, maybe I could take it over…

"Did you ever kill a person?"

I freeze.

I slowly raise my head to look at Carl, who's staring at me with a look of utter fascination in his eyes. He's eager to know. This isn't the kind of question he's asking to get to know me better. He isn't asking out of a sense of obligation, he's asking because he wants to know. He wants to for exactly all the reasons I don't want him to.

"Carl, what did I say?" I ask quietly, glancing at the door to the kitchen, where the rest of the group is congregated "A couple of weeks ago, when we were on watch, what did I make you promise me?"

He frowns. "Not to go cold," he says "I'm not doing that, I just want to know—"

_"Exactly!"_ I hiss "This isn't about trust of friendship or secret-sharing, this is about you wanting to know about death and it _scares_ me, Carl."

"_Fine_, then don't tell me!" Carl exclaims, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"What's going on?" asks Lori, looking at us from the kitchen, clearly concerned.

"Nothing," I lie smoothly "Carl's just upset that I'm beating him at Risk."

Lori looks suspicious, but she nods and steps back into the kitchen. I look right back at Carl with my best admonishing look, and he at least has the common sense to look a little bit embarrassed.

"I don't want to hear a question like that out of you again," I say sternly "Do you understand me?"

"Yeah," Carl mumbles. He leans forward again, clearly refusing to look me in the eye. I realize how… _adulty_ I sounded right then. I kind of like it.

"Good," I mutter "Now let's finish our game and forget about this, that sound good?" He nods.

I place down my armies and the game continues, albeit uncomfortably. I really, really don't want to see Carl turning into some kind of child soldier, but it seems like that's exactly what's happening and I can't do anything to stop it.

I don't know what to do.

Neither of us are very focused, so the game wraps up a lot quicker than it should've. I win. And as I'm cleaning up the pieces, Carl says something that makes me feel a little bit better about the situation. "I'm sorry."

I stop and look up at him. He's staring at the floor. "It's okay."

He looks up and gives me a tight-lipped smile. I return it just as Lori walks in. "Dawson, can you take this out to Daryl?"

I look up. Lori's holding a bowl of food. A bowl that I'm supposed to take out to Daryl, who's on watch.

"And make sure he eats it!" Carol's voice calls "That man won't eat a thing unless you shove it down his throat!"

I stand up, nod, and take the bowl from Lori. I _really_ don't want to go out there. No, I really _do _want to go out there, because I really want to see Daryl even though I shouldn't. I still get stupid, teenage, hormonal butterflies in my stomach whenever I see him, and I really hate it. Or do I like it and hate that I like it?

I definitely hate hormones. That I know for sure.

I head out the front door and get a good view of the setting sun. It's pretty, and if I try not to think about how screwed up the world is, it's a bit peaceful. But I'm not out here to stare at sunsets.

I step off of this unfamiliar porch and look around. I don't see Daryl anywhere. Where is he? I step farther into the yard and crane my head a bit. I walk to the right side of the yard and look down the side of the house; I do the same on the left. Seriously, where would he have gone?

I hear some leaves crunch and my hand jerks for my gun as I turn around—it's just Daryl. He was in the woods. I relax my hand and I'm pretty sure my face turns a bit red.

"Damn, girl, chill out," he says with raised eyebrows.

"Erm—sorry," I mutter "I, uh… brought you some food." I hold out the bowl and he takes it, then motions at the house.

"Ya goin' back in?"

"Carol told me to make sure that you eat it," I explain "Said that you wouldn't do it unless it was shoved down your throat."

Daryl rolls his eyes and starts back for the porch. I follow him, the irritating butterflies fluttering away inside me all the while. He sits down on the steps and I sit next to him, deliberately leaving a good amount of distance.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Fine," he grunts.

"Then why aren't you _eating_?"

He shoots me a look and doesn't answer, but grudgingly puts a bite of… rice? in his mouth. He swallows and finally says "What I do ain't none'a yer business."

"That was a double negative," I note out of habit. "Means it is my business."

"Thought 'choo didn' talk,"

"I had a phase," I joke "Then I remembered that I really liked talking."

Daryl ignores me, takes another bite and the butterflies inside of me let out a dejected sigh. _Shut up!_

"You were never a people person, were you?" I ask a bit sardonically.

"Had ma brother," he replies "All the people I needed."

I frown. "I'm sorry. What happened to him?"

"Got handcuffed to a roof by summa the group," Daryl explains "Went back fer 'im an' he'd cut off 'is own hand. Didn' find a body—I know he's still 'live. S'prised they didn' tell ya 'bout 'im."

I'm a bit… surprised… by this news. They handcuffed his brother to a roof?

"I mostly talk to Carl," I say uncomfortably "I'm guessing he wasn't a part of the er—um… the group that handcuffed your brother…"

"Don' gotta sugarcoat it," Daryl grunts "I loved ma brother but 'e was a jackass. Was 'is own damn fault 'e ended up the way 'e did."

I raise my eyebrows. "Sounds like a real stand-up guy," I deadpan.

Daryl snorts and the butterflies flutter away. _Shut up!_ I need to stop thinking about the fluttering. I need to think about something else. Like maybe the fact that Carl is slowly turning into a psychopath, that's always fun to think about. Of course, my attention can't seem to remain off of Daryl for more than the three seconds it takes to come up with that idea, but then I get a new one…

"Daryl, you're a good guy," I state "But… you didn't grow up with a good home life, did you?"

"Already told ya, ain't none a yer business."

"No, it's just…" I sigh "I'm worried about Carl. This world is making him… hardened. No, worse than that. Earlier, he asked me if I ever killed anyone and he had this look in his eyes like—like he _wanted_ me to say yes and he wanted to hear about it and—it's freaking me out. And you grew up in a bad place but you ended up good and I'm trying to figure out—"

"Ain't the same thing, Dawson," Daryl says. I ignore the flutter when he says my name and try to listen to what he's saying "I had an absent mother, a drunk father, an' a jackass brother. I didn't have no dead people walkin' 'round tryin' ta eat me. An' Carl's gotta helluva lotta people that give 'im the time o' day. So if yer wantin' help in turnin' 'im into a good lil' citizen, yer lookin' in the wrong place."

I sigh. The butterflies are dejected again, and I'm trying not to feel the same way in the rational part of my brain. I don't want to talk to Rick or Lori about this. Rick has a lot of things on his plate and Lori's… _Lori_.

"So what do I do?" I ask.

"Hell if ah know."

Daryl sets down the bowl, which I can see is completely empty, and leans his arms on his knees. The butterfly part of my brain notes how easy it would be to lean over and kiss him, and I stomp it with a mental foot.

If I kissed Daryl, he would either go for it and take me against the side of the house or he would push me away and tell me to get my shit straight. From what I know about him, I'm leaning towards the latter, but men are weird and unpredictable.

"This conversation was enlightening," I mutter, picking up the bowl. Even if it sounded sarcastic, it's a bit true. I found out a bit about his life, which is nice. I'm going to be spending the rest of the foreseeable future with him, so it's probably good to get at least a basic history.

I stand back up and head inside, ignoring the frustrated tightening in my stomach. Maybe I should talk to Maggie about this—of course, she might burst out laughing, which would be worse than the whole suffering in silence thing.

I'm really hoping that this—_crush_—God that's stupid—goes away on its own. My dating experience is limited to one movie with a boy I knew since kindergarten. That was a few months ago. He's probably dead now.

But that's off the point. I don't really know how these things work. I don't know how fast these teenage phases are supposed to pass, or how irritated they're going to get. Am I going to have romantic dreams of picnics in flowery meadows?

Actually, the picture of Daryl having a picnic in a flowery meadow is a little bit humorous.

I'll give it another few weeks. Then I'll talk to Maggie. As much as I dread it, I know that she wouldn't actually laugh at me. She'd probably love the opportunity to talk about something normal for a change.

I walk into the kitchen and give the bowl to Carol, who's washing the dinner dishes. She smiles when she sees that Daryl ate it all. "I was starting to worry," she jokes "You were out there for a while."

"I got him to have a conversation," I boast.

"Wow," Carol chuckles "That takes perseverance."

"You know it," I reply with a yawn. "I think I'm gonna check out, do you need anything else?"

"No, you go on ahead."

I give the woman a quick side-hug and head to the den where I've set up a makeshift bed on the couch. It's comfortable enough, and T-Dog is sleeping on the floor next to me so I feel pretty safe.

I tuck myself into the blankets and watch the light fade from the already dim room until it's almost pitch black. I hear everyone else in the house going to bed as well. T-Dog comes in and plops onto the floor with a quick "'Night."

I think of another thing they never mentioned when talking of the apocalypse. In addition to the endless hours of boredom, there's also a lot of drama. I'm dealing with Carl and Daryl, who knows what kind of drama everyone else is dealing with? I'm sure Rick and Lori are having marriage problems.

Maybe Hershel and Glenn secretly hate each other or Beth has a crush on Daryl too. Who knows what's going on in everyone else's minds?

I need to focus on surviving. I need to put aside the petty stuff and focus on the really pressing matters. Survival is my main priority. Carl is my second. I need to keep track of him and what's going on in his mind; I need to keep him in check.

Daryl doesn't even make the priority list. I'm just a silly teenager with a crush, and I need to stomp out those feelings as quickly as possible.

I take a deep breath and turn over in my bed as T-Dog starts snoring.

Right now, I also need to stop thinking and just get some sleep.


	9. The Beginning of Being Alone

**Author's Note:**

The first paragraph of this is taken directly from Chapter 6 of _The Scarlet Letter_.

Point of clarification: Dawson started this story at fourteen, and by this point in the story is either fifteen or almost fifteen.

**End Author's Note.**

* * *

_We have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; that little creature, whose innocent life had sprung, by the inscrutable decree of Providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out of the rank of luxuriance of a guilty passion. How strange it seemed to the sad woman, as she watched the growth, and the beauty that became every day more brilliant, and the intelligence that threw its quivering sunshine over the tiny features of this child! Her Pearl!—For so had Hester called her; not as a name expressive of her aspect, which had nothing of the calm, white unimpassioned lustre that would be indication by the—_

"Shit! We gotta go!"

I snap my book shut and jump to my feet, looking out the window T-Dog's pointing through; a lot of Walkers are coming. Like, a _herd _of Walkers are coming. Things were perfectly fine three seconds ago.

"Grab what's most important!" shouts Rick, bursting through the door "Food, medicine, weapons, and get in the cars right now!"

I drop my book and dash out of the living room, down the hall, to the bedroom I've been sharing with Beth, and grab both of our bags. I run back out of the room and to the kitchen where Carol is shoving food in another bag as fast as she can. I join in, throwing a few bottles of water and cans into my own bag and Beth's, then run back into the hallway and out the front door.

I see Beth, backing away from the truck that she usually rides in, her path blocked by a single Walker. I grab my gun and shoot the thing before it gets any closer to her, but a lot more are getting closer to the truck.

"Beth, c'mon!" I shout. She sees me and runs for it, I toss her bag to her, and before I can make another decision a Walker comes out of nowhere and I have a brief moment of panic because I can't move my gun fast enough and it's snarling in my ear—

It drops to the ground with an arrow in its head and through a wall of about a dozen Walkers I can see Daryl and Carol on the motorcycle. There's no way we can get to one of the cars because they're all closing in way faster than I thought they would and the only way out of here is through the backyard and into the woods—

"C'mon, we have to run!" I shout, grabbing Beth's hand and tugging her with me. She runs along with me, but she's saying "But Daddy and Maggie and—"

"We'll find 'em later!" I yell back.

We get through the gate into the backyard and I lock the gate with the latch, but we have to go over the back fence unless we want to wait for those Walkers to tear it down and get us.

"Beth, grab that chair and move it to the fence!" I point at a piece of patio furniture across the yard and run over to the shed. There's a shovel and a hoe in there that we left because we have enough long tools for weapons, but the only thing we have now are two knives and five bullets in my gun. Besides, even if Beth has that knife, I don't think she could take out a Walker at close range; I barely trust _myself_ to do that.

I throw open the doors of the shed and grab the two former gardening tools, then run to the back wall of the fence where Beth has dragged the chair over. "Which one?" I ask.

"This one," Beth says, grabbing the hoe. I nod and stand up on the chair to look over the fence. There's one Walker idly staring at a tree trunk; none of the herd seems to have made it over here just yet. "What about the others?" Beth asks hesitantly.

"They're either in the cars and got away or they're stuck in the house in which case they woulda seen us out here and come," I say "So they all got away and we're gonna find 'em. But first we gotta get outta here, a'right?"

Beth nods, and then says "You get an accent when you're scared."

"I'm not scared, I'm stressed," I mutter. The Walker who was just staring at the tree notices us and ambles towards the fence. When it's standing right in front of me and I'm just out of its reach, it lets out an agitated snarl that's cut off by me sinking my knife into its head. I pull it out and the thing crumples to the ground.

"We gotta go over," I mutter "And it's a bit of a fall, but unless ya land on your ankle I think you'll be fine." I try not to think about the fact that I have a bad ankle—the kind of ankle that gets twisted when I wear high heels, although that hasn't happened in quite a few months. "I'll go first,"

I throw the shovel over the fence and then hoist myself on top of it. I steady myself, then throw my legs over and drop to the ground as smoothly as possible. I land on the balls of my feet, and my ankle throbs, but it's not twisted and I know that I can still run.

I look around the woods; there don't appear to be any more Walkers out here.

"Alright, c'mon," I call to Beth. After a second, her body appears on the fence, and a few seconds later she joins me on the ground. I think her fall was a bit more graceful than mine.

"Now what?" she asks.

"Most of the herd'll probably'a followed the cars, but not all so we can't wait here." I explain "We gotta keep moving. We'll go through the woods—there's another group of houses about a mile through, we'll hide out there and try to come back here tomorrow."

Beth nods, and then says "Wait—" she stoops to the ground next to the Walker and reaches forward hesitantly, and then jerks her hands back. "I can't—"

"What?" I ask, confused.

"I wanna leave 'em a message." she sighs "The only thing we got's the blood, but I just can't… I can't do it."

I nod and say "Yeah, you're not pulling a Walker's arm off to write a message—I got an idea—unzip my bag and get out one a the books."

I turn around and Beth does that, and when I turn back around she hands me a well-worn copy of the fifth Harry Potter. I open it up and place it on a tree stump a couple feet away, then grab a stick and draw an arrow pointing towards the woods on the page in dirt. "If they come back for us and look back here they'll see it," I say "And Daryl'll be able to track our footsteps from here. Actually, try to be as obvious as possible—break branches and push away leaves as ya walk."

Beth nods and lets out a shaky breath. "You're good at this," she says.

I snort "Not as good as I wish I was."

With that, the two of us start walking into the woods. I make sure the sun stays on my right as we walk, and after a few minutes everything feels a lot calmer. The birds are chirping and I see some form of woodland creature scuttle away out of the corner of my eye. No Walkers in sight.

"What if we don't find 'em?" Beth asks.

"We will," I lie. I know there's a chance we won't and I really don't want to think about trying to go on without the rest of the group.

"You're lyin,'" Beth whispers.

"So I am."

"So what do we do?" she repeats "If we don't find 'em?"

"No idea," I say "Let's just pray that we do."

We walk in silence for another few minutes. We'll probably find that other road soon, unless I read the map wrong earlier, which is entirely possible. Once again, I'm just praying.

"Do you really think they all got away?" Beth asks.

"Do you really want the honest answer?" I counter.

"Yeah."

"I saw Daryl and Carol on the motorcycle," I say "That was all. Lori's getting bigger, so she may have fallen behind, and you know that Rick wouldn't leave her behind in a situation like that. Your dad might have fallen behind, too, and Maggie would've stayed just to look for the both of you. If she stayed, Glenn would've stayed. Carl's reckless enough to try and go all badass on the Walkers and T's brave enough to try to save somebody. There're too many variables, and anybody could've gotten grabbed."

"So you think they're all dead?" Beth asks quietly.

"That's not what I said," I mutter "I just said that they might be. There's no way to know, and there's no reason to dwell on it. Right now we just need to find shelter, okay?"

"Okay."

We walk for another few minutes and I let out a sigh of relief when I start to see a few houses through the trees. "Keep a lookout," I mutter. Beth nods and falls a few steps behind me, clutching the hoe tight in her hands.

When we arrive at the edge of the woods we're greeted with a long fence that stretches all down the length of the houses in either direction. I take my shovel and beat it against the wood picket fence in front of me until the boards start cracking.

"That's loud," Beth whispers.

"Well we can't go over," I hiss back. I give the boards another stab and make a decent-sized hole. Another couple of hits and the hole is big enough for one of us to fit through. I stoop down and look through it—everything in the yard of the house seems calm.

"Come right behind me," I instruct before throwing the shovel in and shimmying through. It's a tight fit and getting through is extremely uncomfortable, but after a few seconds I'm sitting on the dead grass and I stand up. Beth follows me through after a few moments and I look around.

There's nothing in the yard to suggest that anything particularly gruesome has happened here, but I don't trust outward appearances. There's a slightly rusted swing set, an overgrown and dying garden, a patio set surrounding a fire pit, and a trampoline.

"Cover up the hole," I say "I'll check to see if the door's locked."

Beth nods and I walk over to the porch. It's a sliding glass door, which isn't very practical in our current situation, but still better than nothing. I twist the handle and find that the door is unlocked.

If the door is unlocked, they're either dead inside or they left in a hurry. I'm hoping for the latter.

I twist the handle all the way and slide the door open. Oh yeah, it smells like death in here. The smell of death doesn't necessarily mean Walkers, but it's not at all encouraging. It's like a teacher saying right before she hands out test results "I'm very disappointed in you." You hope it's not you, but it's not encouraging _at all_.

I close the door and turn around. Beth is just finishing dragging a chair over to the fence. She puts it on its side and shoves it against the fence, so the back is covering the hole. Good enough. I wave her over and she comes, and I explain the situation.

"So do we look for another house?" she asks.

"We're not gonna do any better anywhere else," I reply. "We go in, but we have to move slowly, check everything, and be prepared to back out, got it?"

Beth gulps and nods. I notice that her hands are shaking.

"Beth," I ask apprehensively "Have you ever killed a Walker?"

She bites her lip. "Maggie once had me kill one that was stuck—but—I've never killed one like this, up close, with it moving."

"Okay," I sigh. Honestly I'm not all that surprised. Carl was right all those weeks ago; Beth is soft. "Just stay behind me."

She nods and I open the door again. Once more I'm hit by the overpowering stench of death, but it's something that I'm well acquainted with. I ignore it and enter the house, keeping my gun ready. I don't want to take a shot, but it's best to have the gun out first; I don't want to get surprise-attacked.

The house is a big open-concept place. We're in the kitchen, which opens up to the living room on the left and a hallway straight ahead. Luckily, the kitchen is fairly small and it only takes a few seconds to realize that there are no Walkers in here.

I move to the side and examine the living room. One couch, one recliner, a big television, and a lot of bookcases. The main entrance is in front of me now, and I can see the end of the hall from the kitchen. There's another hall to the right that I can see a door off of, and another open room off the main entrance area. I walk forward cautiously, Beth close behind me.

When I get a full view of the hall, I can see that the one on the right holds three doors and the one on the left holds two, but branches out again at the end. The doors all seem to be closed, so I proceed to the main entrance to examine the other room.

This room has a desk, computer, and more books; an office. No Walkers inside.

I take a step to the front door and lock the deadbolt, then back up to the living room. "Right or left?" I whisper.

Beth shrugs, and I can tell that she's shaking.

I pick left, because there's a branch at the end of that hallway and I want to make sure there are no Walkers lurking right around the corner. I walk down the hall cautiously. The house is painted in light colors, so the hallway doesn't feel as narrow as I know it actually is.

I get to the end and quickly step forward to look both ways. The left way extends a few feet before leading to another door, and the right way extends further back, holding one door on each side of the hall and the end.

I pick left again and step to the side, put my hand on the doorknob. "Ready?" I whisper to Beth.

"Yeah," she whispers back.

I turn the knob and open the door—it's a bathroom. A very dark and also very uninhabited bathroom.

I sigh and step back before turning around to face the other side of the hall. I pick left again—it's a boy's room with two twin beds. There's nothing in here, either. The right side holds a cramped laundry room. There's a plastic-wrapped case of water bottles on the top shelf that we'll come back for when we're done clearing the place.

The final door opens into a garage and that's where we get our first Walker.

"Oh my God!" Beth whispers. I sigh and close the door again. No use going out of my way to kill that one if it's hanging by its neck. I turn back around and Beth is leaning against the wall, covering her face.

"Beth," I whisper, putting a hand on her shoulder. She jerks away and lets out a small sniffle before uncovering her face. There are a few tears-tracks on her cheeks, but she looks okay. "I'm fine," she whispers.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

I nod and walk back down the hallway to examine the two doors left on this side of the house. The first is just a closet, and the second leads to a staircase. We'll probably stay up there tonight.

"We'll check that last," I whisper, closing the door again. Beth nods and we make our way across the open area to the left hallway. I pick left again.

This is the master bedroom. It seems fairly clear, but I can't see to the right due to a large dresser. I take a step in and look around—there are two more doors. I sigh. How many doors does this house have?

I walk in and open the first door, which leads to a bathroom with another door on the other side. I close it and open the second door, which leads to a walk-in closet. I take some extra time examining it, because clothes are good at hiding things, but there's nothing in there.

I walk back to the bathroom and open the door to the next room—

I'm hit by an overwhelming stench of death and Beth lets out another _"Oh my God!" _louder than the first.

I definitely agree this time.

The room is for a little girl. The walls are pink with darker pink swirls. The carpet is pink as well. The shades are pink and the furniture is all princess-themed. And on the pink canopy bed lays four rotting bodies all shot in the head. The mother, the two sons, and the daughter. _I'M SORRY _is written across the wall in their blood.

I shut the door. "No Walkers." I whisper.

Beth doesn't say anything.

It must've been the father in the garage. He killed his family and hung himself.

I walk out of the bathroom and the master bedroom, and check the third door in this hall just for the sake of thoroughness—it's a closet. No need to check the door on the right—I know it leads to the little girl's room.

As we head back to the door leading to the stairs, I glimpse at Beth. She's crying. Not loudly, just crying. I don't really blame her; she's never seen something like that before.

I open the door to the stairs and walk up cautiously. The smell of death isn't up here, so I'm guessing it's safe, but there's never a reason not to be cautious. It just seems to be a converted attic. There's another television and lots of toys littering the ground. A few drawings are hanging on the wall. There's one poster with five paint handprints on it.

A green handprint: _Mom_

A black handprint: _Dad_

A red handprint: _Carter_

A smaller, blue handprint: _Tyler_

The smallest handprint, pink: _Zella_

I'll try to remember their names. I don't know why, but I will.

"Now what?" Beth whispers resignedly.

"Now we gather some supplies and wait the night," I shrug "In the morning, we'll either stay here or check the other house," I pause, and look at Beth, who's stopped crying and is staring at the same poster that I was. "Is that alright with you?" I ask.

She looks at me as if she's surprised I'm asking for her opinion, and then she nods. "Yeah, that's good with me."


	10. The Beginning of New Hope

"This water is gonna last us awhile," I grunt as I back up the stairs. Beth is in front of me, holding the other side of the water bottle case. "Which is good, because I really don't want to leave this house anytime soon."

We reach the top and drop the pack on the floor. "Well I do," says Beth as we push it out of the way of the stairs. "I don' like bein' here… where that family died; takin' up their space and usin' their food."

I frown as we stand back up. I take Beth's hand and give it a squeeze. "Think about it like this," I say "If they were alive, they'd probably want to help us."

Beth sighs and nods. "So what now?"

"Look for more supplies," I shrug "We'll start with the kitchen. This place seems pretty untouched, and a house with kids usually means lots of canned and boxed food."

Beth nods and grabs both of our bags, which we've already emptied out. We head downstairs and start opening the cabinets. Sure enough, there's a lot of canned and boxed food; lots of Spaghetti-O's and Mac'N'Cheese in a cup. There's also some stale cereal, a few boxes of pasta, a very large can of pudding that we decide to save for later, an unopened two-liter of Sprite, and when I finally get the courage to open the fridge I find more soda and water as well as a jar of pickles that seems to be good. We also tuck a few of the sharper knives into our bags and belts.

We search the rest of the house with the exception of the little girl's room. There's no way we're going in there again on the extremely small chance that there are any supplies we could use.

We find some medicine, pillows and blankets, some new clothes, two flashlights, assorted batteries, four lighters, a sewing kit, and three rifles with eight boxes of ammo. That last one makes me happiest—guns and ammo are hard to come by.

We store everything upstairs and spend an hour or two moving the things that we don't need downstairs. It's mostly the toys, but there's some other stuff as well. We make beds out of the pillows and blankets and we scavenged, and then I tell Beth "We need to check the garage."

She bites her lip, but says "I know."

I want to say that I can do it alone, but she needs to learn how to take care of herself, and these days, part of taking care of yourself is dealing with Walkers.

We head downstairs and open the door to the garage. Immediately, the dead father begins thrashing around in his noose, waving his arms and legs, snarling loudly. The car is still in here, and if we ever need to get out of here we can use it as long as the garage door opens manually. That's the first thing that I check, and I'm disappointed to see that it runs on an electric system; the type that you can't pull open.

I sigh and start looking through the boxes, ignoring the moans of the Walker. I find some more food and water in the storage closet and a work table with lots of tools that could be used as weapons. I take the duct tape, the glue, the fishing line, the bungee cords, and the rope.

"Dawson?" Beth calls from the other side of the garage.

"Yeah?" I call back.

"Can we please kill it?"

I stop rummaging through the tools and look over at Beth. She's staring at the hanging Walker with a lost look on her face. I sigh.

"If we're killing it, you're going to do it," I say "And we're not wasting a shot on it, either. Get a ladder."

We find a large step-up ladder among some of the other junk in the garage and set it up next to the Walker. It groans in excitement and starts thrashing even more, but I ignore it. Beth, on the other hand, has turned paler than usual and has started trembling.

"Beth, you can do this," I say, squeezing her hand. "We kill Walkers every single day. You need to be strong. Think about what would happen if you ended up alone. You _need_ to know how to do this."

Beth nods and takes her knife out of her belt, then begins climbing the ladder while I hold onto the edges. She can reach its head by the third step, and the thing is reaching out for her wildly. She's still shaking.

"Don't think," I say "Just stab it."

Beth takes another shaky breath. Several seconds pass, and then out of nowhere she wrenches the knife forward. She loses her footing and falls into the Walker with a scream and I shout "Beth!" and then she's on the ground, lying beneath a hanging dead Walker, and after she catches her breath she lets out a little relieved laugh.

"Yeah," she says "That… wasn't so bad."

I let out a relieved sigh and kneel down next to her. "You alright?" I ask.

She nods. "Just knocked my breath out," she says. I nod and help her up, and we both take a moment to admire her handiwork.

"The knife's still in it," Beth says.

"You need to get it out," I reply.

"Thought you'd say that," she mumbles. This time, though, she doesn't hesitate when she climbs up on the ladder. She gets to the fourth step, reaches out, and yanks her knife out of the Walker's head. She loses her balance again, but regains it, and comes down the usual way. She wipes her knife off on a greasy rag from the work table, and says "I feel a bit better."

"Good," I reply. "Let's keep looking."

* * *

_Beth And Dawson Here_, I write on the glass door. I step back and chuckle at my creative use of lipstick. I always hated makeup, but now it has a purpose.

"We need to put it on the other side of the fence, too," I say, making my way across the yard. "You don't need to come through with me, just keep a watch over the fence while I write."

Beth nods as I move the chair away from the hole in the fence and stand it up for her to climb on. She does that while I shimmy through the hole, and then I un-cap the lipstick to write a new message.

It's a bit harder to write on wood, but I get it soon enough. _Beth And Dawson Here_, I write again. For good measure, I draw one arrow pointing at the hole in the bottom of the fence and one arrow pointing to the top of it.

"Are we good?" Beth asks.

"Yup," I reply, capping my now somewhat splinter-y lipstick. I shimmy back through the hole, we cover it up, and as we walk back to the house I just hope that the group comes back for us.

* * *

"It's getting cold," Beth notes as she takes a bite of her noodles.

"The food or the weather?" I ask "Because the food's already cold."

"The weather," she replies "Can we start a fire or will that attract Walkers?"

"It'd probably be okay at night," I shrug "But I wouldn't risk it while we can still get warm enough with sweaters and blankets."

We eat in silence for a few minutes before Beth talks again. "Do you think they'll find us?"

"Didn't we already have this conversation?" I mutter.

"I mean, now that we've put out those markers and things," she clarifies "Do you think that it'll be easier for 'em to find us?"

I take another bite of food and chew it up slowly before replying "It hasn't even been a day yet. We have enough supplies to last us a few weeks, so for now let's just leave it be."

Beth clearly isn't happy with this response, but she doesn't try to continue the line of conversation.

* * *

We end up not travelling back to the last house. We have enough supplies to last us awhile here, and I'm confident in Daryl's ability to track us down.

Daryl. _Flutter._

_Shut up._

I expected that at some point the remnants of the herd that split the group up would amble into the fence surrounding this neighborhood, but they never do. I see a few lone Walkers in the woods over the days, but that's all; just a few lone Walkers. I was expecting a group of two or three dozen.

Having enough supplies and not a lot of Walkers is nice, but after the fourth day or so I start to worry. I mean, shouldn't they have come for us by now? What if they're all dead? What if they all got as scattered as me and Beth? What if the two of us have to survive alone now?

Scavenging one house and surviving a week is one thing, but I'm not confident in my ability to take care for myself _and _look after Beth.

On the sixth morning, I wake up to the sounds of scuffling down in the main part of the house. I sit up quietly to listen. I hear some more sounds, so I lean over to shake Beth awake. When her eyes pop open, I put my fingers to my lips and point at the staircase. She listens for a few moments and then nods.

I get up and grab my gun and knife, give Beth a few seconds to do the same, and then make my way down the stairs.

We barricade the door every night by putting a chair on its side so it's wedged between the bottom of the stairs and the entrance, and then tie the handle with a bungee cord. It's pretty effective.

I'm about to start unwrapping the cord when a very familiar voice calls out "Beth?"

My shoulders slump in relief at the same time that Beth shouts "Maggie!" She flies down the stairs and unwraps the bungee cord before I even have time to process exactly what's happening, and then I'm watching Beth and Maggie crying and hugging each other.

Daryl's leaning against the wall watching the emotional scene with a look of slight apprehension. He sees me and nods, and then steps out of my line of sight.

_Flutter._

I officially hate that.

It takes a few minutes for Beth to calm down, and then she's telling Maggie all the details of our little misadventure as we pack up all of the useful supplies the two of us have tucked away in our attic. When Beth is done talking, Maggie fills us in on the other side of the story.

"We all loaded up and got away pretty quick," she explains "We got far enough down the road to get outta the cars without the herd catchin' up to us and that's when we realized ya'll were missin.' I wanted ta go back right away, but the herd was followin' us down the road and we couldn.'

"We kept drivin,' but it seemed like every time we stopped the herd was right behind us again within an hour. Eventually Daryl led 'em all away on the bike an' we were able to loop around an' get back to the house. We had to kill a lot o' Walkers just ta get in an' look for ya, but we did, and Daryl said that none o' the blood around the place belonged ta either o' ya, so we kept lookin.' We saw the book in the woods the next day, and I wanted to go right off, but it was getting' dark and Rick made me stay back at the house last night. This mornin' me and Daryl went off first thing."

"And here we are," I finish for her with a smile.

Maggie nods and hugs her sister again, then surprises me by giving me a long hug as well. "We should get goin,'" she says when she releases me "Everyone'll be happy ta see both a ya. 'Specially Carl; he pitched a fit when Rick wouldn' let 'im go with us."

I chuckle. "Yeah, that doesn't really surprise me."

The three of us head back outside, where Daryl's leaning against the fence looking rather surly.

_And a bit handsome._

_Shut up._

After a few minutes we're all trekking through the woods, and before the hour's up we've made it back to the house, where everyone immediately comes out and gives us all tearful hugs and welcome-back's.

There's something really comforting about having a group of people that care so much about me.

It's comforting to have a place where you belong.

* * *

"Any Walkers?" I ask Rick as we carry out bags into the new house.

"Three," he replies "And one body, but we've already taken them all out."

I nod and set down my personal bag next to the step before following Carol and Lori into the living room to drop the blankets and food.

Lori is noticeably pregnant now. It seemed like it happened overnight, but you can suddenly just _tell_. I know that she's going to get a lot bigger than she is now, but she already seems huge. It's a bit disconcerting.

We all spread out to look for anything useful and get a layout of the house. I pick a couch in the den and T-Dog elects to sleep on the floor next to me, which is pretty typical. I also find a copy of _The Scarlet Letter_, which I've wanted to finish since the untimely Walker interruption a few weeks ago.

The kitchen's been stripped clean of food, but we come out with some new clothes and blankets, which we definitely need as things are starting to get much colder. Rick and T-Dog are even discussing building a fire tonight.

Carl announces that he found a backpack upstairs with supplies in it as I settle in to read my book. Everybody gives general acknowledgement before getting back to what they were doing, which isn't really much.

Once again, I'm struck by how very_ boring _the apocalypse is. A few times, I've idly thought that maybe we should attacked by bandits or something, but those thoughts are shaken away almost as quickly as they come. Boredom is better than death any day of the week.

"Dawson, can you help me with this?" Carol calls from the kitchen. I look up from my book and realize that an hour's probably passed by now. Thank you, Nathaniel Hawthorne.

I bookmark my page and join Carol, who's heating up our dinner over a gas stove that they somehow managed to get running.

"What do you need?" I ask.

"Just gotta use the bathroom, can you watch these?" Carol asks.

"No problem," I nod. Carol nods back and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me to stare at the cooking food. This is why I don't like to help with the food preparation; seeing everything cook and then not getting enough drives me crazy.

But I shouldn't complain. I could always be starving.

Carol's only gone a minute or two, and when she gets back she smiles and thanks me, and just as I'm about to return to my book I see something that gives me pause.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Oh, that's the backpack with supplies that Carl found," Carol explains. "Why?"

I don't answer, just step forward and grab the strap of the bag. I hold it up and look at the pattern that's been stitched into one side—

_"CARL!"_ I screech, bolting into the living room. Everybody jerks up, panicking and asking what's wrong, but I ignore them and head straight for Carl, who looks even more alarmed than everyone else _"Where did you get this!" _I scream at him.

"Up—upstairs—"

"Show me! _Now!_"

I grab his arm, wrench him off the couch, and shove him in the direction of the stairs. "Dawson, what's this about—"

"Shut up and show me where you found this!" I cry. He leads me quickly up the stairs and to one of the second floor bedrooms, where I walk in and look around.

Makeshift bed, empty cans and water bottles, clothes on the ground, a Harry Potter book on the table, a board game on the floor—

"She was here," I whisper.

My knees fall out and someone grabs me by the elbows before I can hit the ground. "Dawson—Dawson, look at me, look at me Dawson—"

"What!" I cry.

"Who was here, Dawson? Who was here?"

I look up. It's Rick. Rick is asking me questions. Daryl is holding me. At another time I'd be thrilled about that but I'm too shocked by this. I gave up hope when I saw Drew on that highway, I gave up hope that she could still be alive. I thought that she must've been dead. But why is her bag here? Why did she leave her bag here?

_Three. And one body._

"The body, Rick—was it a girl?" I choke out "How big was it?"

"Dawson, why don't you just calm down—"

_"Why don't you just answer my question!"_ I screech, shoving Daryl away and getting to my feet. "That body that you found! Was it a girl's body!"

"I don't know," Rick says slowly. He puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to look into my eyes. "The Walkers had been gnawin' on it. But it was small."

My knees fall out again.

It was small. The Walkers were gnawing on a small body. She was small. She was always so very small. She always had bird-bones.

"How small?" I whisper.

Rick kneels down in an attempt to look in my eyes again. "Very small," he says, rubbing a hand over his face. "Baby small."

Baby small.

Jamie. Will.

I thought for sure they would have died.

I thought for sure that Julie and Lucy were dead.

But she was here.

She wasn't one of the bodies. She got out. She's still alive.

I let out a relieved sigh and slump back.

I should be upset that one of the babies is dead, but I gave up hope a long time ago. One of my babies just came back to life.

"Dawson, who was here?" Rick asks again. "Whose body was it?"

"Those are two different questions," I say with relief. I close my eyes and let out a breath and a slightly manic laugh. I open my eyes and see Rick looking at me. He still wants an answer, and I'm happy to give it.

"My cousin was here," I say "Lucy was here."


	11. The Beginning of The Freeze

"Are you sure?" I demand.

Daryl sighs resignedly and looks at me. "Been a while since she was 'ere. Ain't gonna pick up any tracks."

I cross my arms over my chest and look at my shoes. _It's been a while since she was here._ She may have gotten out of here but she may have died somewhere else.

_Lucy._

"There's no way to know where she went?" I ask.

"Sorry," Daryl mutters "We gotta go back inside."

I should be happy that I have _any_ hope that Lucy's alive. And I am. But I want her back. I want her here with me, right now. I want her safe.

"Yeah, we do," I reply morosely. I look up at Daryl and hold back the tears that have been threatening me for the past few minutes. He nods awkwardly and as we head back to the house he claps a hand on my shoulder. It's just for a second, but it's enough to send the butterflies fluttering so much I can forget worrying about Lucy for a few moments.

_Flutter._

_Shut up._

* * *

I trace the name on the bag. Lucy. She sewed that on nice and pretty after I gave her this bag for her eleventh birthday. She was good at everything. The name is perfectly dimensional, spelled out in pink cursive.

"She was your sister?" Hershel asks.

"Cousin," I reply "I thought for sure she was dead."

Hershel reaches out and grasps my hand firmly. I look up at him and smile. He's started growing a beard and it suits him nicely; makes his face look even kinder. "And now you know she isn't," he says confidently.

"She might still be…" I whisper.

"You can't think like that," he says "You have to hope. Hope is what keeps us alive. So you hope that she's alive, and you hope that we'll find her."

Hershel's such a good man. It's amazing that there's anything left in this world that seems so… _untainted_. Everything's been affected in some way or another, but Hershel remains himself. Maybe the apocalypse made him a better man than he was before; I wouldn't know. If that was the change he went through, though, I'd say it's a pretty good one. It's the kind of change that I wish everyone would go through.

"Yeah," I say, smiling again. "You're really good at that inspirational stuff."

He chuckles. "That's why you keep me around."

* * *

I wake up cold, which isn't unusual these days.

The unusual bit is that I'm snuggled up next to T-Dog.

I sit up and realize just how cold it is. I immediately lie back down next to T and curl into the warmth. It got absolutely_ freezing_ overnight; he must have pulled me over to him.

The light shining through the windows is brighter than I remember it being, but we've only been in this house for a day so I could easily not be remembering properly. But how bright it is just seems unusual…

"Dawson! T!" The door to the den flies open and I sit up. Beth is on the other side of the door, bundled up tight with a grin on her face. "It's snowin'!" she says excitedly "Come see!" And with that she's gone.

I nudge T-Dog's shoulder and he gives a grunt and waves his hand at me, which means that he's awake. "Beth said it's snowing," I whisper to him.

"You go see it," he mumbles back. "I'm sleeping,"

"Whatever," I say with an eye-roll.

It only takes me a few minutes to pull on some of the extra clothes that we've been picking up here and there. It's not exactly real winter apparel, but it's better than walking around in the freezing weather with nothing but normal clothes on. Mittens, a scarf, a hat, a second pair of socks and two sweaters.

When I get outside, most everybody's already out there, and indeed it's snowed. The ground is covered in a coating of about two inches and the tree branches are frozen, giving them the frosting effect that always made the best pictures. If this were a normal day, it would mean that everything was cancelled, the power might be out, and everybody would spend the day by their fires, drinking hot cocoa and playing board games.

I think it's a break for us, too. The Walkers probably froze.

Beth and Carl are having a snowball fight against Glenn and Maggie, all laughing uproariously. Lori and Rick have their arms around each other and are actually smiling; Hershel is watching the snowball fight with a look of joy on his face. Daryl and Carol are standing off to the side; Carol is laughing and Daryl looks like he might almost have a smile.

Snow. The answer to all problems.

Snow also means I've definitely turned fifteen. It's weird not knowing what day it is, but it's nice to at least be aware of that fact.

I'm fifteen. One-five. It feels a lot more grown-up than fourteen, which is kind of silly, but it's true. I'd be a freshman right now. I'd be in all of those fancy high school classes and maybe I would've actually gone on a real date.

I wonder how many of my old friends are dead. I never really thought about them; I was too focused on surviving by myself. Really, though, how many of them could be alive? I'm sure if any of them were asked, I wouldn't be the first choice to be surviving this long. Maybe one day I'll run into one of them. Wouldn't that be a sight?

I need to stop thinking about dead people.

I kneel down and carefully make a snowball. I've always been bad at this kind of stuff, but I might as well give it a shot. When I feel confident that my snowball might fly, I stand up again and pelt it at Glenn. It hits him in the shin.

He turns to me and says "Where's T?"

"Being a lazy bum!" I call back. A snowball hits me in the side and I turn to see Carl laughing maniacally. I rush over and kick some snow at him, which results in a bizarre trudging-through-the-snow game of tag.

After several minutes, the cold air and the exertion catches in my lungs and I have to take a few deep breaths. Cold air was never a _big _problem for my asthma, but I don't need to over-exert myself. I haven't had to use the inhaler in several weeks, and I don't want to use it any more than I have to.

I half-heartedly continue the snowball fight but eventually have to give it up. There's a small itch to go get my inhaler, but I recover soon enough.

After spending the morning outside we all retire to the house. Glenn, Maggie, Beth, Carl, and I are all soaking wet within a few minutes and spend about an hour trying to get warm again, but we still don't regret the snowball fight. It's nice to do something fun for a change.

I didn't notice Daryl go out hunting, but around midday he comes back with a rabbit and the news that most of the Walkers are frozen, and the ones that aren't are too stiff to do very much.

So it really _is_ a break.

Most of us spend the afternoon pondering the benefits of heading north permanently.

"If we make it up into Canada," says Glenn "There's lots of big game, lots of guns, and not a lot of people. The cold will keep the Walkers frozen and they won't be a threat anymore."

"And how would we stay warm the whole time?" I ask "We're freezing already and this is _warm_ for Northern winters."

"We'd start a fire," says Maggie

"A fire draws unwanted attention, that's why we can't build one here," says Hershel.

"But if all the Walkers were frozen—" Glenn starts.

"We aren't necessarily worried about Walkers," Rick says grimly. "There may not be a lot of people up there, but the ones that are left know how to survive."

"Gas heaters," says T-Dog.

"Require gas," I point out.

As we sit here debating, I remember why I lied about my age. Beth and Carl are in the other room playing their board games while I get to help make decisions. They think I'm an adult.

I _am_ an adult. The age is irrelevant.

"Maybe we could head north for the summers and come back south for the winters," says Glenn.

"Like migratory birds," I mutter under my breath. Only Maggie hears me and she stifles a laugh as Rick starts talking.

"We can't spend two months a year moving back and forth. The benefits are good, but there're too many risks. What we need is a place where we can set up a permanent life, start farming, start rebuilding."

"Lots of schools are built like fortresses," I say slowly "I remember feeling like a prisoner when I still went to school. None of them are walled-in completely, but we could look around, see what we have to work with."

"My school wasn't like that," Maggie says, looking at me in slight disbelief "We were surrounded by fields."

"We were surrounded by barbed wire," I reply "I think they added those after kids started bringing knives to school. But I also grew up in a bigger town than you."

Maggie shrugs and looks to Rick, who's shaking his head.

"There are schools like that, but like you said: they're in bigger towns. Even if we could clear it out and seal it up, there'd always be way too many Walkers at the walls. We have to stay in the country." We all think in silence for a few moments before Rick tacks on "We could still try for Fort Benning."

"You heard what Dave and Tony said—" Glenn starts.

"They could've been lying." Rick interrupts.

I don't know who Dave and Tony are, but from everybody's reactions to the names, I'm guessing they were bad news.

"That's not worth the risk," Carol mutters. She leans forward and speaks a bit louder "Let's pause for a moment. Are we discussing long-term plans or are we figuring out what to do right now?"

"We have plenty of supplies and the Walkers are frozen," says T-Dog. "Let's stick with the long-term plans."

The next hour or two is spent in more debate. The general consensus of the meeting is that nobody has any idea what the hell they're doing, which really isn't encouraging, but we do get one idea across: We need to find a place for Lori to have her baby.

For now, that seems to be the most important thing. Lori is getting a lot bigger, and that baby is coming in a few months. When it does, we're going to have a completely helpless thing that is absolutely, one-hundred percent reliant on us for everything, and starts screaming every two to four hours. We need a place where we can make noise without worrying about the Walkers getting us.

Daryl and Carol try to bring up the prospect of having to get formula, but Rick won't even hear it. As impractical as it is, I really don't blame him; I can't imagine knowing that there's a roughly twenty-five percent chance that your wife is going to die in a few months.

"Maybe we should stop thinking about a place where we can farm," I say "At least for a bit. Maybe for the short term, while we wait for the baby to come and grow out of crying ten times a day, we just need to get well-stocked and find a big concrete building."

"Like what?" asks Glenn.

"Like… a Costco! Or a storage unit place, or—back to the school idea. Somewhere with walls big enough that we can just hunker down for a few months without the Walkers even knowing that we're there."

"And how are we going to get that much food?" asks Rick.

"I don't know!" I mutter, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms defensively "It's just an idea—isn't that what meetings are for?"

And now we're arguing again.

I talk a lot in the meeting. I don't think I ever realized how much I talked until I stopped. But I always talked. Talking was the only reason I ever got in trouble in school and why my dad always got mad at me when we were in line at stores. I talk too much.

At least in a meeting, most of what I say is constructive. I still probably talk too much, but I'm not babbling about nonsense, I'm giving ideas. But by the end of the meeting, we're all pretty much out of ideas.

And then T-Dog says "I have an idea." We all perk up and he grins "The Walkers are frozen; we don't need to keep watch—why don't we open that wine we've been saving?"

The idea is alcohol.

_Fantastic._

"I'm done!" I announce, throwing up my hands and standing up. "Have fun with your drinking!"

Everybody laughs at me. "What?" asks Glenn "You don't drink?"

"My mother was an ER nurse," I reply "You wouldn't drink, either." Which actually isn't a complete lie. With the amount of stories Mom brought home, I promised myself a long time ago that I would never touch alcohol. The fact that I was underage had almost nothing to do with it.

"C'mon, live a little!" says T-Dog, who's already making his way to the kitchen for the wine.

"I am a good influence!" I call to him in the other room. He laughs.

"Well, if we're splitting up," says Hershel, standing up "I'm with Dawson. I already fell off the wagon once; I don't need to do it again."

"Thank you," I smile "Let's go play cards or something while these idiots poison themselves."

We do just that; join Lori, Carl, and Beth, who are all playing Monopoly. And that's pretty much how the rest of the day is spent. Five of us are playing games and wasting time while the other six drink and play poker. It takes me a while to notice, but Rick actually isn't drinking either. He's too concerned for our safety to drink, even if all the Walkers are frozen.

I definitely respect him for that.

By the time evening comes, it's snowing again. We decide to make a small fire in the woodstove; small enough that the night will be enough to cover the smoke.

And so, night falls on a strangely peaceful day. No Walkers, no danger, no hunger; just a nice day that we all spent together.

"You sure you don't want a drink?" T-Dog asks me later. Lori, Hershel, Beth, and Carl have already gone to bed and I've resigned myself to sitting around giggling with a bunch of half-drunk adults because what else am I going to do? I'm not in the least bit tired, and the group is pretty funny when they're drunk.

"I'm really sure, T," I assure him with a chuckle.

"C'mon," he urges me "It's the end of the world!"

I look at Rick, the only other sober person in the room, and we share an amused smile. He nods at me, as if he's giving me permission, and I'm only indignant for a few moments before I realize that I _might_ want to have a drink…

No. I don't drink. Never have, never will. I'm not going to break that promise just because the world ended.

_Just because the world ended._ That's probably the stupidest thing I've ever thought. No, the stupidest thing I've ever thought is that Daryl is hot, but that one comes in at a close second.

I sigh. "Alright, give it here."

There's a general 'whoop' as the bottle is passed to me and I take it. I stare at it for a few moments, debating with myself about whether I really should take a sip. "Screw it," I mutter, and I lift the bottle to my lips, take a big gulp, and _ugh!_

I swallow as I move the bottle away and cringe. "That is _disgusting_—it's like… juice that _burns_."

Everybody busts out laughing; even Rick. I can feel a little heat coming up in my cheeks even though I know that they're not really laughing at me. It was just funny. Maybe the wine's already getting to my head, although that seems unlikely.

"Han' it back o'er here, then," Daryl drawls. I frown. I feel a bit stubborn, and I also have a small desire to impress Daryl—

_—flutter—_

_—shut up—_

—which I know is stupid… but it's still there. So I defiantly lift the bottle to my lips and take another large sip, which makes everybody whoop once more. It's slightly less disgusting this time, but it's still bitter and stings my throat. Still, I swallow it a bit easier and I think I almost feel a bit lightheaded already.

"What now?" Glenn laughs. I raise my eyebrows at his bright red face and the way he and Maggie are basically draped over each other and reply "I don't understand the appeal, but it made ya'll laugh, so that's good."

I pass the bottle away and lean back in my seat. I'm almost sure I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. I mean, I know that I must have a seriously low alcohol tolerance, but I didn't think that it would take effect this fast. Maybe it's just a placebo effect.

Some more time passes, jokes and stories are told, and at some point I think I'm absolutely sure that I'm at least a little bit… _tipsy_. Yeah, that's the word. I must be a lightweight if I'm already feeling it… feeling very… loose. Free and happy. I giggle quite a bit. The stories seem funnier and everything seems happier. I take the bottle back from Glenn and take another sip, which isn't nearly as gross this time.

I haven't got a clue why I've been so stressed lately. Why don't we all do this more often? This is fun… whatever we're doing. Hanging out, telling jokes, giggling, talking. I talk to Daryl, which makes everyone giggle and I can't figure out why, and at some point Rick convinces me that I should go to bed, which seems like a bad idea because I'm having a good time but I am feeling tired…

So I pick a spot on one of the couches and lay down and eventually my eyelids start drooping…


	12. The Beginning of Stupidity

_"Mom! Dad!" I call, setting my bag down on the table "I'm home! Got an A on that math test!"_

_"Good job!" Mom calls back. She's in the kitchen. I walk into the kitchen, where she's cooking the beginning of some sort of stir-fry._

_"You're cooking?" I ask with raised eyebrows._

_"Your dad rented a movie," she replies._

_"Where is Dad?"_

_"Out in the barn, fixing up something or other."_

_I shrug and grab an egg carton from the top of the fridge and head to the living room to change out of my good shoes and into my working boots. I head outside to do my chores. I collect the eggs, feed the chickens and the goat, and make sure they all have water._

_When I'm done, instead of heading back to the house I go to the barn, which actually hasn't been a barn since we bought the place, but we still call it that. It's more like my father's man cave._

_I open the regular door and I'm hit with the squealing of a saw and the voice of Rush Limbaugh, neither of which I find particularly pleasant. "Daddy!" I call over the ruckus. The saw stops and after a few moments my dad emerges around one of the walls of the barn—still in his headphones and protective goggles._

_"Hey!" I say with a small wave._

_He removes the headphones and gives me a smile. "How was school? You learn anything?"_

_"No." I reply blandly "I still want to be homeschooled."_

_Dad rolls his eyes a bit dramatically and says "Whatever—go wash those eggs."_

_"Love you too," I say sarcastically as I walk back out the door. I hear him say something back but I'm already out the door, rolling my eyes good-naturedly even though I know he can't see me._

_I head back inside the house and back to the kitchen, where my mom is still cooking the stir-fry. It's starting to smell good now._

_"We're heading to the cousins' this weekend," Mom informs me as I pull out a rag "They're going on an anniversary trip."_

_"We can't go," I reply casually, turning on the sink and getting the special sponge out._

_"I'm sorry," Mom says, sounding a bit amused "Did you have other plans?"_

_"We just can't go," I reiterate._

_"Why's that?" she asks sternly. I can feel her looking at me but I ignore her, getting the first egg out of the carton and starting to scrub it._

_"I can't explain it to you," I say "We just can't go. If we go, something terrible will happen."_

_"Samantha, that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say," Mom says. After a few moments, she asks "Are you feeling alright?"_

_"Fine," I shrug, setting a clean egg on the rag "I won't this weekend, though. Or any weekend after that. If we go to the cousins' that is."_

_"Sami, come here," Mom says. She steps next to me and puts an arm around me. I feel a hand on my forehead but ignore her and keep washing my eggs. "You're not running a fever. Did something happen at school?"_

_"Nothing," I reply "But if we go to the cousins' house this weekend I'll never go back."_

_"Samantha Jennifer Dawson." Mom snaps "Stop this right now—what is going on?"_

_"Something bad," I reply._

_Mom doesn't say anything and I continue washing the eggs. Once they're all clean I put them back in the egg carton and store them in the fridge. I turn to Mom, but she isn't there. The stir-fry is sizzling away._

_The floor creaks behind me and something groans. I turn and see my mother ambling towards me, her eyes glassy and a bloody bite on her leg. "Oh dear," I mutter tonelessly. I take a step back and pick one of the bigger blades out of the knife block on the counter. I step forward and stab my dead mother through the head with an eye-roll._

_I look at the knife and see the blood._

_The blood._

_Oh God._

_Blood. Oh God, Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom—_

"MOM!" I screech, sitting up and taking gulps of air.

I am never drinking again.

The pounding in my head and the nausea in my belly is irrelevant. I never have nightmares and the only reason I did just now was that wine I drank last night.

I am _never_ drinking again.

"Dawson?" Beth rushes into the room and looks at me with concern. "Are you alright?"

I nod and put a hand on my chest, trying to slow my breathing and my heart rate. "Nightmare," I wheeze, the air catching in my lungs. I try to ignore it, because I don't want to use my inhaler over something as trivial as a _nightmare_.

Beth crosses the room and sits next to me on the couch. Why did I fall asleep on this couch? This is the living room; I'm not sleeping in the living room.

"What was it about?" Beth asks.

I shake my head and when my breathing is sufficiently slow I answer "I don't remember. Just... blood. And my mom. I don't really remember the details."

"Is she okay?" Lori's voice this time. She comes slowly around the corner with a concerned look on her face and one hand over her belly which I swear is bigger than yesterday.

"She just had a nightmare," Beth replies.

Lori nods and heads back out of the room. I take a last gulp of air and I finally feel like I'm breathing at a normal pace, but I'm still shook up. I don't recall ever having a nightmare before and I definitely don't like it.

"You sure you're alright?" Beth asks.

"Fine, really," I reply, taking her hand and squeezing it. "Just not used to nightmares. I don't think I've ever had one before."

"You're lucky," Beth mumbles. I look at her, and she has a somewhat dark expression on her face. I lean forward and give her a hug, which she returns. After a few moments she pulls back and says "C'mon, everyone's eatin.'"

I nod and pull myself off the couch. "Why was I sleeping in here?" I ask.

"Carol said that you drank a bit and fell asleep in here," Beth replies, knitting her eyebrows together. "You don't remember?"

"That was my first time drinking," I shrug "My tolerance was probably somewhere close to zero."

Beth laughs at that, and I smile as we enter the kitchen, where everyone's eating a breakfast that looks surprisingly edible. I sit down between Carl and Hershel and after a few moments Carol hands me a bowl and gives me a weird look. I give her a weird look back and she shakes her head.

Now I'm confused.

I ignore that for the time being, because we're eating oatmeal and I'm starving. I've gotten used to breakfasts that consist of half a can of fruit, so this is simply heavenly.

Unfortunately, the food doesn't last as long as I'd like it to, and after sitting around talking with everybody for a few minutes I'm roped into a game of Battleships with Carl. About halfway through I realize something.

"Where's Daryl?"

Carl shrugs "He went out hunting. C-four?"

"Miss," I reply, marking my board. "Why'd he go out? It's freezing and we have enough food to last us awhile."

Carl shrugs again. "He left before I woke up."

I frown at the board. "E-nine?"

"Hit," Carl grumbles. I smirk as we mark our boards again.

A few turns pass and then Carl asks "What was your nightmare about?"

"Can't really remember," I reply "But it's not hard to guess."

"You shouted for your mom."

"Like I said," I mumble "It's not hard to guess. A-seven?"

"Miss," Carl replies dismissively "Was it about her turning?"

"She didn't turn," I mutter darkly, marking my board.

"What happened to her?"

"It's not your business."

"Aren't we friends?"

"Doesn't make it your business."

He doesn't have anything to say to that, and when I win the game a few turns later we part uncomfortably. Things like that are happening quite a bit more frequently. I head to the den to read, and find T-Dog doing the same. He looks up from his book when I enter and grins. "Well, hello!" he says with a laugh.

"What?" I ask in confusion.

He laughs again. "I knew you wouldn't remember! Glenn owes me the next chocolate bar he finds!" He's absolutely hysterical in his laughing now, and I cross my arms defiantly.

"What is it, T?" I ask as sternly as possible. It's hard to be stern with a laughing adult who apparently knows something that I don't.

"When you got drunk last night," T-Dog laughs. I almost want to say _'I was not drunk,'_ but I think I might be lying. "You hit on Daryl!"

I hit on Daryl.

_Fantastic._

"Oh God," I mutter, closing my eyes and putting my fingers to my temples to quell the sudden headache. That's probably why he left so early this morning… and why Carol gave me that funny look at breakfast.

I definitely need to talk to Maggie about this.

Then I realize that basically the whole group now knows that I'm… _into_… Daryl. Including Daryl. The super-hormones of embarrassment kick in and my face gets so hot I think you could probably fry an egg on it. If we had any eggs, that is.

"Oh, God," I mutter again, quickly backing out of the room. I head down the hall and straight out the front door, a bit to cool down my face but mostly to get away from the rest of the group. This is ridiculously embarrassing. This is like, stupid teenage sitcom on Disney Channel level of embarrassing. It's almost cliché.

So now what? Daryl probably won't even look at me for the rest of forever and the rest of the group are going to get a good laugh about this for the next week or so.

How do normal teenagers handle these things? Answer; normal teenagers never had to spend their entire life with exactly the same people all day, every day. So there's no answer.

Great.

I almost want to sit out here pouting like a child for the rest of the day, but it's freezing.

I sigh resignedly and turn around to head back into the house. This is going to be a long day.

* * *

As expected, Daryl pretty much stays as far away as physically possible from me when he gets back to the house that night. What I didn't expect was the enormous deer he has slung over his shoulders.

Maybe the embarrassment is worth it if we get to eat venison for a few days.

No, not really.

Still, I'm happy that my ridiculous teenage antics at least had something good come of them, and as we sit around eating steaks that night and we're all in good spirits once more. The difference is that when T-Dog pulls out another bottle of wine that they'd been saving, I go to bed immediately.

* * *

We stay in the same house for a while. Eventually, though, the snow and ice melts away and we know that we have to move again.

Our new destination is a storage building that we're hoping will have some useful supplies hidden within. Our best hope is a unit full of guns and ammunition, which we do end up finding, but not as much as we'd hoped. Still, the storage units are a pretty good place to hide out, and we all agree to stay there for a week or so.

It all seems pretty typical, until Rick asks me to go on a run with him.

Which is where I am now, and still pretty baffled.

Most of the ride so far has been silent, and I finally get up the courage to ask "Why do you want me with you?"

"Glenn and Maggie have been risking too much lately," Rick replies "Figured I'd give 'em a break."

"Still," I say "Why _me_? You don't even let me clear houses."

"I know that you're capable," he says "You could clear a house if I asked you to. I also know that you probably want to get away from the group for a day."

My face turns red and I groan. Rick laughs. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about how I acted like a hormonal teenager?" I mutter "Yeah, no thanks."

Rick, still laughing, replies "It happens to the best of us."

"Shut up," I mumble, shrinking into my seat a bit.

"I'm not makin' fun of you," Rick insists. "You're a young woman and you don't have a lot of choices in front of you—"

"Rick, please, stop talking." I say "I think I might actually _die_ if you don't stop talking, and then you'd have a Walker in the passenger seat, and that wouldn't be good for anyone."

Rick snorts, but he does stop talking, which I'm thankful for.

We head to an old department store set back pretty far in the little town we're in, so it may not have been completely looted. We only have to kill a few Walkers on the way in, which is done with ease. Rick reminds not to use my gun unless I have to as we enter the place, but it quickly becomes apparent that the Walkers from the parking lot are the only ones we have to worry about.

We split up at that point. The place seems pretty deserted, but I make sure that I make a decent amount of noise so that any Walker hiding in the shadows is sure to notice me and jump out. Most of the food's gone, but I do get a bit, and then I head to the clothing section, which is much more stocked. The nice thing about clothes is that they're reusable. The only problem when searching for them is that they might not be in your size. But I'm not looking for clothes for me.

I find the baby section and pick out several gender-neutral choices and a few socks and hats. I also grab some diapers while we're here. Diapers, which are very much not reusable, seem to be disappearing as fast as food. As extremely unenthused I am at the prospect of one day running out of diapers, there's something encouraging about the idea that there's enough babies left in the world that diapers are still disappearing.

On my way back to the front of the store, I hear a sudden moan and trip as a hand reaches seemingly out of nowhere and grasps at my ankle.

I catch myself on the edge of the cart I was using and jerk my foot away, grabbing my knife and pulling it out of my belt. I take a quick step back as the Walker pulls itself out from beneath the clothing rack and snarls at me, reaching for my legs with flailing arms. I really don't want to try to stab it, so I do what comes naturally; I stomp on its head.

It's quite a gruesome thing to see, but my boot makes quick work of the rotting head and soon there's brain matter splattered all over the floor.

I definitely prefer stabbing.

Grimacing, I pull a pretty, but impractical shirt from one of the clothing racks and wipe my shoe on it. I feel nauseous for a moment, but I overcome it and get back to my journey to the front of the store within a few minutes.

I really hate Walkers.

Rick is already at the front of the store when I get there, his cart loaded with tarps and ropes and batteries and those kinds of supplies. He looks concerned when he sees me and says "You alright? Run into trouble?"

I realize that I'm trembling just a bit, and I nod, trying to gain control. "Yeah—just a Walker. I had to stomp its head, which was… _disgusting_."

Rick nods knowingly and looks at my haul of food. "That it?"

"Were you expecting a feast?" I deadpan.

"Hoping would be the better word," Rick replies as we start rolling out carts out of the store.

"Pray for the best, prepare for the worst," I quote in the same deadpan tone. Lucy became quite fond of that phrase when the dead first started walking around.

Lucy. _God, I know I don't pray that often anymore, but please let her be alive._

The ride back to the storage units is uneventful as the ride away, but I find a CD in the glove compartment and throw it in. Rick's face is priceless when Ke$ha starts blasting through the speakers. I was never fond of pop music, but it's nice to listen to something upbeat, as trashy as this particular singer is.

Add that to the list of things I miss; music.

Indoor plumbing, regular meals, electricity, the Internet, dead people staying dead, and music. Seems like a pretty good list.

We get back before dark, and Lori gives me a big hug when I show her the baby clothes I got her. We all eat a meal of Ramen noodles for dinner, and I sneak Carl the lonely little candy bar I found in the department store. He grins and tucks it into his pocket.

I head to bed almost as soon as the sun sets, exhausted from the day. On my way to the storage unit I've set up as my bedroom, I run into Daryl, which is perhaps the strangest two seconds of eye contact I've ever had. I can't tell if he's uncomfortable or angry as he passes me by, and I settle on angry.

I definitely need to apologize to him, or something similar, because I can't avoid ten percent of the people I know for the rest of my life. He's going to be living with me until one of us dies, so not talking is just impractical.

I resolve myself to doing it tomorrow.

It feels like I'm about to tell my parents that I'm the one who ate the last cookie.


	13. The Beginning of My Plan

When I wake up it takes me a few moments to realize where I am.

When I do, I breathe a sigh of relief. I know where I am; I'm in my own unit in the storage center. My own space. I've gotten so used to sleeping next to somebody all these months that I've forgotten what it's like to have my own room.

Even wrapped up in my sweater, fuzzy socks, and blankets, it's pretty cold in here, so I don't waste any time getting myself ready for the day. Of course, getting ready for the day really only requires changing from sweat pants to jeans, putting on some shoes, and putting my hair up, so it would be pretty hard to waste time anyway.

Besides waking up alone, the rest of the morning is pretty standard. The group has breakfast together and we have a short meeting about the night watch and rations. As far as food goes, we have enough to last us a week. On the hand of watch, there are a few Walkers roaming around outside the building, but they don't know that we're here. If they persist we might go out there to take them down.

I watch Daryl through most of the meeting. I still need to apologize to him, but it's hard to get privacy anymore. I notice that he never talks after I do, clearly another tactic of avoiding me.

The rest of my morning is spent with T-Dog, clearing out the storage units and looking for anything interesting. We already got all of the supplies we could; now we're looking for entertainment.

"Alright," T-Dog grins when we enter a unit with a pool table. "You know how to play?"

"Not without the balls and the cues," I reply, raising my eyebrows at the very bare rest of the unit "Kind of a bummer, I was getting tired of Monopoly and Battleship."

"We'll find some poker chips 'round here," T replies, giving me another grin as we close the unit and mark it off with our spray paint.

"If we play poker you better be careful," I chuckle "My dad had me playing when I was six. And I beat him."

"Probably let you win," he teases.

"Oh no, I was a badass little kid," I laugh "Played poker, knew how to shoot, I even tried to play head-butt with our goat once."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"I got a concussion and had to go to the ER," I answer tonelessly. T-Dog busts out laughing and I smile. "But hey, that's how kids learn."

"Anything else you learned?" he chokes out through his laughter.

"I learned that if your parents tell you not to put your hand on the hot stovetop it's for a reason," I answer, holding up my right hand. You can still faintly see a few pink scars from the incident when I was four and burned my hand. "I was a stubborn child."

"I see that," T raises his eyebrows as he examines my hand "That must've hurt like hell."

"I was four," I shrug "It's kind of been erased from my memory. I just remember being irritated that my parents told me to do anything."

He chuckles again and opens the next storage unit, which doesn't seem to contain anything but old photographs. There could be some interesting stuff in there, but… "I don't really wanna sort through photos of people who are probably dead," I murmur.

"No arguments here," T-Dog replies, shoving the door closed and shaking the spray can. He marks an 'X' on the door and we move on to the next unit.

"What was your childhood like?" I ask.

He shrugs as he opens the door. "Alright. Didn't grow up in a good neighborhood, but my parents loved me. Didn't have the best prospects, but I got involved with the church as a teen; gave me some purpose."

We look around the storage unit. There's a dusty old couch and a few boxes full of assorted home items. I find a mirror and look at myself in the dim light. _Not bad considering the world's ended_, I think. _Although my eyebrows are a little worse for wear_. There's nothing else in here and we move on.

"What'd you do before everything went down?" T asks.

"Still in college." _A lie._ "I wanted to be a psychologist." _Not a lie._ "Kinda ironic, considering how messed up I am now."

"Don't say that," T-Dog replies with a frown, opening the next door.

"We're all pretty messed up, T," I mutter "No need to deny it. Half the living population's probably suffering from PTSD at this point, a few of us are psycho killers, the list goes on. No need to sugarcoat it. At least I'm able to analyze myself." Still not a lie. I read several psychology books before I even decided that was what I wanted to be.

"And the morning was going so well," T-Dog jokes. He scans the unit and shrugs "Nothin' worth anything."

I sigh as he closes the door and marks it.

"Got any other plans for the day?" he asks as we reach the next door.

"Well, I'm gonna try to apologize to Daryl."

T-Dog laughs as he opens the door. "Have fun with that."

"Screw you," I say playfully, giving him a light jab in the side. He chuckles again and steps inside the new unit. There are a lot of books in here, so we take some extra time, looking through all the titles. I see a few Stephen Kings and start bagging them.

"Honestly, I don't got a clue what you see in him."

"I don't see anything in him," I lie "I was drunk and stupid."

"Please, you turned red as a tomato when I told you what you did," T replies "Acted like an embarrassed little girl who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar."

"And you're acting like a gossipy teenager," I quip, pulling the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and The Hobbit from the shelf and stowing the books in my bag.

"Just wondering," T replies.

I sigh loudly. "I don't think it's his personality so much as psychology," I explain "I told you earlier; I can analyze myself. I have an illogical attraction to him because he saved my life. Living in close quarters is amplifying it."

"You're just a hopeless romantic, aren't you?" T chuckles.

"You asked!" I exclaim, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't be a jerk!"

"Yeah, and I thought I'd get some wistful girly shit as an answer," he says "Wasn't expecting a psychoanalysis."

"You're being irritating." I decide, shoving the last interesting book (The 'Worst Case Scenario' manual) into my bag and standing up.

We move through the next few units without much discussion until we hit the one with the item that we were hoping for; a poker set.

I laugh as T-Dog shoves it into his bag with a big fat grin. "We're gonna play tonight," he says "And I'm gonna destroy you."

"In your dreams," I taunt.

We make it through the rest of the units without any serious conversation and return to the unit we picked as our main living area with several bags of books and games. We also found a few batteries that went missed in the initial search and one small box of ammunition.

After we get everything sorted out I look around the unit. "Where's Daryl?" I ask.

Glenn raises his eyebrows suggestively and I punch him none-too-lightly on the shoulder. "I'm going to apologize," I mutter.

"What'd you do?" Carl asks. I'm about to tell him not to worry about it when Glenn says "Tried to steal his crossbow."

Carl looks confused but the rest of the group seems to be pretty amused by Glenn's comment. "Shut up," I tell Glenn sternly, giving him my best scary look, which I'm pretty sure isn't all that intimidating. If I took after my mom, I'm sure it would be utterly_ terrifying_.

"He went out huntin' again," says Rick with a smile "You can apologize tonight."

I sigh and look at Carl. "C'mon, kid, I'll teach you how to play poker," I say "Away from all of these idiots."

Glenn laughs again and I resist the urge to kick him, instead grabbing the poker set and following Carl out of the unit. We go to my 'room' and set up the game. I show him how to play, and after a few rounds he starts to pick it up.

"Why did you want to steal Daryl's crossbow?" Carl asks in between rounds.

"I didn't," I reply "Glenn's just an idiot that thinks he's really funny."

He looks like he wants to ask for more information, but he doesn't and I'm thankful. I'm pretty sure Carl knows what sex _is_, but I'm definitely not the person to explain euphemisms to him. I also just don't _want _to.

We spend most of the afternoon playing poker, only getting a few interruptions from Lori and Beth. I haven't played poker in a while, so I'm rusty, but Carl doesn't beat me except in the first few rounds when I let him.

I think about my dad and finger the dog tags with Drew's keychain. I smile at the idea that my father could still be alive, that Lucy may still be alive. I remember what Hershel said about hope. Hope keeps us going.

"Do you think we're ever going to find her?" Carl asks, noticing what I'm doing "Your cousin?"

"I hope so." I shrug "You know she's your age. Almost exactly the same age, I think."

Carl shrugs "What does that matter?" he mutters, his face turning red.

"What's that about?" I ask with raised eyebrows, pointing at his face.

"Nothing."

"Carl, you're blushing, that's something," I grin "Tell me!"

"No."

"Yes!" I insist. A thought hits me, why he would get irritated about me mentioning a girl his age, and I giggle "Do you like_ Beth_?"

_"No!"_ he answers immediately, his face turning even redder.

"You so do!" I reply with a smirk "Ah, young love!"

"Shut up, I'm not _in love_ with her!" Carl says defensively.

"No, but you_ like_ her!" I sing, drawing out the word 'like.' "Beth an' Carl, sittin' in a tree—"

"Stop it!"

"Oh, never," I reply. He refuses to look at me and I nudge his leg with my foot. "I'm sorry Carl; I just think it's cute. I won't make fun of you anymore, alright?"

He looks up at me with a frown, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. "Good."

"Good." I reply.

It's nice that he's doing something normal. Having a crush is good. Psychopaths don't have crushes. At least not on soft, pretty blonde farm girls. This is good.

I smile.

We continue playing.

* * *

I pace around for a bit, trying to figure out exactly what I'm going to say. I never liked apologizing; I was too prideful for it. I usually made up some sort of excuse, but this is important. Things can't be awkward for the rest of my life.

I let out a sigh and keep pacing. I could just say 'sorry.' Short and to the point. But that doesn't feel… _right_. No, I need to really apologize.

I don't entirely remember what it is that I did or said, which makes it harder. I don't have any specifics to go off of; only a generalized idea of what it is that I did.

"Ya gonna stand out there all night?" Daryl's voice calls.

I jump, because I thought he couldn't see me. I walk the remaining few yards to his unit and peek my head inside; he's sitting on his cot and reading a book by the light of a lamp.

"Didn't think you knew I was there," I mumble.

He snorts and looks back at his book. "Ya got somethin' ta say?"

"Yeah, you know," I struggle "Just… um… you know… sorry. For… what I did. Last week, when we were all drinking. I um… I was being stupid and… I clearly made you… uncomfortable or something… and I don't want things to be awkward because we're probably gonna be spending the rest of our lives together and I'd hate to avoid a single person for the rest of my life and—"

He looks up, and that single look stops my talking.

"Sorry," I say immediately "For rambling, that time," I add.

He shrugs and looks back to his book again. "Ya ain't got nothin' ta 'pologize for. Ya were drunk an' stupid, just figured ya wouldn' wanna talk ta me after that."

"Oh," I say simply. "Well, you know… there aren't very many of us… so… that would be kind of… impractical." I'm rambling again. And I feel like a stupid teenager again.

I don't say anything for a few moments and Daryl looks up again. "Anythin' else?"

"Um… I…" I was probably standing here for longer than I thought.

"If ya want somethin' now, while yer thinkin' straight, go ahead an' tell me," Daryl says blandly "Otherwise, just go on."

_If I want something now while I'm thinking straight…?_

It takes me a few moments to realize what he's saying and then the only thought that goes through my head is _Holy shit_.

The butterflies flutter, trying to get me to step forward, but my brain keeps my feet firmly in place. I need to leave. I need to leave right now. He's looking back at his book and I know that he isn't going to make any kind of first move, but the hormonal, insecure part of me is feeling_ far_ too tempted right now.

I need to leave.

I command my feet to step back and out of the unit. Daryl doesn't even look up and the butterflies flutter angrily at me for not taking up the offer.

_Shut up._

I quickly head to my own unit and lay down on my bed. I just stare at the ceiling, not quite sure if I'm embarrassed or something else entirely.

I didn't think that this… _infatuation_ could get any worse, but now that there's a deal on the table, it most certainly is. He basically said that he'd sleep with me any time I felt like. _No, no, no,_ I am not doing that. I am _not_ letting myself turn into one of those girls.

But I_ really_ want to.

_No._

But…

_No._

I need to tell the group how old I am. That'll deter Daryl and he won't let me anywhere near him. If I tell everyone that I'm fifteen, this won't be so tempting anymore.

No, I can't do that, either. If I tell them that I was lying this whole time it'll be beyond kid-treatment, they won't let me near anything because of the fact that I lied in the first place. And I want to have a say in things, I like being an adult.

_Really?_ There are ten people in my life and there's still drama. What is wrong with the human race? We're clearly all idiots.

I roll over and close my eyes despite the fact that I know I won't be getting to sleep any time soon. I think too hard.

Maybe I really should talk to Maggie. Or maybe I can get on just ignoring the stupid butterflies like I've been doing for the last few months.

Why am I even having trouble with this? I was never the girl that would have casual sex. I never had sex of any kind, Lucy and I made a pact to wait until marriage.

But the answer to that one is simple too. I'm not really Sami anymore; I'm Dawson now. And Dawson clearly has no trouble with that kind of arrangement.

Didn't I promise myself I'd stop thinking about these things? If only it was that easy. Maybe I should just find something to distract me. Something new to distract me every day, as if. There's never anything new to do. Life is just killing Walkers and making sure we have enough food to not starve.

If that's all that life has to offer, maybe just thinking about what I want for a few minutes isn't such a bad idea.

No, it _is _a bad idea.

What is it about bad decisions that make them creep into your brain and convince you that they're good decisions? _Because bad decisions usually feel pretty good in the moment that you make them._ It's the bad part that comes after.

Maybe I should stick with simple: _I hate everything._

I need to talk to Maggie. That's what I'll do. For right now, I'm going to sleep. Tomorrow, I'm going to definitely not think about Daryl and I'm going to talk to Maggie. That's the plan.

_That's the plan._


	14. The Beginning of Spring

"Over here!" I call. I'm not exactly loud, but noisy enough to attract the attention of the three dozen or so Walkers ambling around the parking lot. "C'mon, I bet I taste delicious! Fresh, tasty meat right here! C'mon, come get me!"

I walk back leisurely, making sure I have their attention. The one on the far end is still preoccupied with the door; I have to get him. I glance behind me out of habit, even though I know that Carl is covering me.

Great, on top of everything else, I have trust issues.

"The one at the door still doesn't see us," I inform the boy "We have to run them around."

"Inside or outside?" he asks. He's taking the whole 'cover my back' thing pretty seriously if he won't even turn around.

"Outside," I reply "One of them's stuck on that bench by the sidewalk. You don't need to cut into the grass either, just skim the edge of the parking lot. You good?"

"I'm good."

I start moving a bit faster, making sure I can still feel Carl behind me as I do so. We get around to the edge of the parking lot and move around the miniature herd. I keep calling out until the one at the door finally notices me, at which point I say "Alright, he's got us."

"Where to?"

"Let's just head back around," I reply.

"Got it."

We start walking the other way and I keep a careful eye on the Walkers in the parking lot. It's almost funny that they're so determined to eat us. I mean _really_, after all that we've gone through, do these random little Walkers _really_ think that_ they're_ the ones who are going to get us? _Please._

We've been walking for about a minute when the doors of the storage building open and Glenn and Maggie run out, T-Dog and Daryl right behind them. A bolt flies through the head of the Walker nearest me and Carl, and I shoot Daryl a glance. He was watching me for a moment, but now he's focused on the Walkers again.

Glenn and Maggie take out a few with their hatchets, Daryl shoots one that gets too close, and T-Dog stands to the side with his gun ready in case things go downhill.

Another Walker gets close to me and Carl and I take my knife out of my belt. It gets within a few feet and I step forward, jam my knife into its head, and step back all in one fluid motion.

"Anything on your side?" I ask Carl.

"Still clear," he replies "Are they killing them?"

"Quite effectively," I quip.

We get across the edge of the parking lot and start moving towards the back doors. It doesn't take very long and no more Walkers get close enough to pose any danger, and then we're back inside the safety of the storage building.

Before Carl and I have even caught our breath, Rick is chaining the door back up. "Did I do good?" Carl asks breathlessly.

Rick finishes chaining the door and turns to look at us. He places a hand on Carl's shoulder and smiles. "Yeah, you did good."

Carl beams and then the three of us rush back to the front of the storage building. When we get there, the little team of Walker-killers is already back inside, and Carol is watching the entrance.

"Alright," calls Rick "Good job! Now let's get things packed up quickly!"

I give Carl a squeeze on the shoulder before I leave his side to start grabbing bags. We all head out to the parking lot and start packing up the vehicles with our remaining food and supplies, keeping a watch out for Walkers as we do so. I almost swear that one of the dead ones moves, but it's just the wind picking up its shirt.

Within twenty minutes or so we're all packed up and piling into the cars. It's almost strange that we can just pack up our whole life and leave like this, after spending over a month in this place.

"Where are we going?" Carl asks as we pile into the car.

"Housing development," I reply "Gonna see if any of them have food."

Carl nods.

Carol gets in next to us and Rick and Lori get into the front seats. Our little caravan starts up and we're leaving our temporary home behind. I watch it fade in the rearview mirror, and then berate myself for being so sentimental. Sentimentality isn't the best trait to have these days.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Carl asks as he wanders into the yard.

"Honeysuckle's bloomin,'" Beth replies with a grin, popping another flower off the vine and breaking the stem. She shoves the end into her mouth and grins.

"So?"

"So it tastes good!" I reply, breaking off another flower and handing it to him. He looks at me with a confused and expression and I frown. "Don't tell me you've never had honeysuckle before! What kind of Southern child are you?"

I pick another flower off and show Carl how to break the stem to get the sweetness out of it, and then suck on the end. "It tastes like honey and you suck it," I explain with a grin "Honeysuckle."

Carl follows my actions as Beth and I look on with laughter, and then he joins our grins and nods. "It's good," he says, looking more at Beth than at me. I roll my eyes but he doesn't notice. After a few seconds he turns to me and says "Oh yeah, Dad wanted me to come get you 'cause they're having a meeting."

"What about?" I ask, snapping one last flower off of the bush. Carl shrugs and turns back to Beth, who gives me a slightly exasperated look before I start heading back to the house.

Carl's crush on Beth is something that's entirely obvious to everyone and makes us all smile. Cute things make the world feel quite a bit less depressing.

I get one last whiff of the flowery springtime air before I head inside the house we're currently using. I can hear the talking already going on in the dining room when I get there. Rick looks up and says "We're talking about where to go for medical supplies."

Medical supplies. For Lori, obviously.

Lori isn't at this meeting. She's probably asleep upstairs, trying to ignore her ridiculously large baby belly. It's gotten to the point of looking a bit like a beach ball hidden beneath her shirt, but I know that it's just going to get even bigger.

I sit down next to Maggie as Hershel starts talking about the things we'll need when Lori delivers. Maybe _what_ we need isn't exactly the problem here; the problem is _how_ we're going to get those things.

None of us are thrilled about the prospect of going to a hospital; most of them will probably be overrun. That leaves pharmacies, doctor's offices, clinics, things like that. But those kinds of places have likely been picked clean of anything useful. We _need_ to go to a hospital, as dangerous as it is.

"There could be food in a hospital," I pipe up when we touch the subject. "My mom worked in the ER, she always ordered out at lunch because she hated the food. It was probably packed full of preservatives, which means…"

"If it's still there it'll be good," Rick finishes with a nod.

"Yeah," I shrug, biting my lip.

From then on, the decision's pretty much made already, but we have to go over every possible choice before we make up our minds. I guess that's democracy for you.

I remember all of those months ago; when Rick decided that this isn't a democracy anymore. So far that isn't really showing. He makes executive decisions sometimes, but these meetings still happen. Maybe he really did just… _snap_. I guess that's okay if it doesn't happen again…

We decide on the hospital. And since the run itself is so dangerous, we decide that Rick, Daryl, T-Dog, Glenn, and Maggie will be going. All of the best fighters.

"What'll we do if a herd comes?" asks Carol "Or another _group_?"

"I'm sure that you, Dawson, and Carl can hold down the fort," Rick replies "But if a herd comes… we'll figure out a location to meet at."

This sounds like it's going to be a fun few days.

We work out a few more details before the meeting disperses. None of us are particularly happy about tomorrow.

* * *

Watching half the group leave is heart-wrenching. I keep imagining them running down the halls of some dark, Walker-infested hospital. I imagine them taking a wrong turn and getting cornered, and I imagine them all being slowly eaten alive.

But I know that last bit won't happen. We made a pact a long time ago that we would put each other down if it came to that, but a practical knowledge of something never helps your fears. It's why people who were afraid of heights couldn't climb rock walls even if they were harnessed in; your instincts take over.

And right now, my instincts are making me worried.

"They'll be alright," says Carol, squeezing my hand "You know they will."

"Surviving isn't all about skill," I reply quietly "It's a bit of luck, too. And you never know when your luck will run out."

"You can't think like that," she says "You have to focus on what you can do, and right now you can't do anything for them. So let's focus on what we need to do here, okay?"

I turn to look at Carol. She's giving me a very serious look, clearly telling me to stop my worrying and get on with the chores we have to do.

I do the chores, but I don't stop worrying.

* * *

My thoughts stray to Daryl more often than not, which irritates my brain but sets my stomach aflutter. What with the imminent danger, the butterflies are pretty restless today, but for the first time it's for reasons I don't hate.

Still, I promised myself that I need to stop thinking about Daryl.

That leads me to think about Maggie, who I also promised myself I'd have a conversation with… but I never did. I was too embarrassed and maybe a bit too stubborn to talk to her about my problems, and now I really want to.

And if she doesn't come back, I never will.

I should really stop thinking; it never gets me anywhere good.

"Your move," says Carl, removing me from my unproductive thoughts.

"Right," I mutter, examining the chess board. What piece did he just move? The knight? No, it was in the same place last time. No… I think he moved that pawn… Wait… I should ask. But I really don't want to ask, because then he'll know that I wasn't paying attention.

I take a much longer time than usual to move my piece, owing to the fact that I don't know what move Carl made.

And on his next turn he takes my queen.

* * *

It's the third day since the group split up, and my anxiety levels are rapidly increasing.

I think about the time that Beth and I got lost and how I managed to remain calm that time. _How _did I remain calm that time? Maybe it was because I had to take care of Beth or maybe it was because we were the ones separated that time.

Once again, I try to focus on something else, but to no avail. At one point I try to think about Lucy, but that gets me pretty much the same anxiety level as thinking about the rest of the group.

In my mind, I make up a world where I'm with my group and we're all safe, where we don't have to worry about anything. Even the old world wasn't perfect. Even in the old world you could leave home perfectly normal and never come back. I just never really noticed.

I guess things haven't really changed that much. People are still killing each other.

There's just a lot more now.

With those happy thoughts, I return to my stimulating activity of staring out the window, waiting for a car to return.

It'll be Daryl's motorcycle first, though. He'll be right in front of Maggie and Glenn's little green car that always gets used for runs. That car will hold the rest of the group.

But I'll hear the motorcycle first. And Daryl.

_Flutter._

_Shut up._

I've told myself about a hundred times in the past month or two that I desperately need to talk to Maggie, but I can't seem to follow my own advice. Instead, I sit around stewing in my teenage hormones and running back over the last conversation we had, which I suppose is a better activity than worrying.

No, it's not.

I really miss the Internet.

Then I hear the engine and my heart leaps. I straighten up and look out the window, and here comes the motorcycle and the green car along the road, and after less than a minute they're all parked and getting out and they all seem to be perfectly fine and they're carrying supplies and oh thank God—

I rush out the door and hug the first person in my path, which is Daryl. I back away almost as soon as I realize what I'm doing and run to Maggie next. "I was so worried about you guys!" I say as I step back.

"No big deal," says Glenn, his voice dripping with sarcasm "Not like I had to _crawl_ through a mile of _vents_ or anything."

"Ya got us outta there," Daryl shrugs. Everyone else laughs, and I imagine Glenn climbing through the vents of a dark, Walker-infested hospital.

Now that the group is alive here in front of me, the visual isn't quite so nerve-wracking.

I grab a rather heavy box and help them get all of our new supplies into the house, much happier than I was before.


	15. The Beginning of The Prison

**Author's Note:**

Okay, this chapter is the one that I've been dreading the most. I definitely like how it came out, but I'm worried about the reception of it. Also, since I'm so touchy about the subject of this chapter, it got split in a few places, but I'm still happy with it. Sort of. More about my irrational fears at the end of this chapter.

**End Author's Note.**

* * *

_"Why're ya here?"_

_I shrug. "I don't really know… I mean… I almost died today—we all did. And that's all I can think about… like, what would I regret if I had died today?"_

_"So?"_

_"So… I'm taking you up on your offer."_

"Dawson?" Carl says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Huh?"

"I said that I'm attacking Great Britain," Carl frowns "Are you okay?"

"Yeah… I'm fine…"

"Ya still shaken up?" Beth asks with a sympathetic expression.

I shrug. "Just thinking."

"I wouldn't blame you if you were," Lori says "That was scary."

"Yeah…" I reply "So, Great Britain? Let's go."

It's not what happened the other day that's got my mind in another place, although what happened the other day was pretty terrifying.

I'm still not entirely clear about how that herd sneaked up on us, but suddenly it was just… _there_. I swear I was almost bit a dozen times and at least two Walkers got their hands on me at some point. The worst part was when I ran out of bullets; that felt like a death sentence.

* * *

_A hand encloses my wrist and I jerk away, stumbling right into the arms of another Walker. I hear it snarling right next to my ear and I scream—_

_BOOM!_

_The snarling stops but I'm tugged to the ground along with the now dead Walker, and the one that grabbed my hand is climbing on top of me—_

_BOOM!_

_I don't know who's covering me, but the Walkers falls dead right on top of me. The smell is overwhelming and I want to throw up, but I don't have the time, I have to get out of this…_

* * *

Every single one of us came extremely close to dying the other day. And for me it was like… a wake-up call. Or an epiphany. I decided to do what I've been wanting to do for months. And_ that_ is what has my thoughts wandering.

I keep thinking over the conversation and what happened right after that conversation… I spent so long grappling with myself over whether or not to do it, but now I realize that it doesn't matter.

_It_ felt good._ I_ felt good. I feel good right now. The best thing was that I could forget for a few minutes. I forgot about absolutely everything else except how ridiculously amazing I felt.

And now I'm done.

It was perhaps the strangest feeling I've ever had. I looked at Daryl and realized that I didn't feel that fluttering anymore. It was like I just got it all out of my system. Apparently what it took was sex.

Sex. I had sex. That's the thing that boggles my mind.

I don't feel like a stupid, hormonal teenage girl anymore. I feel more like an adult than I ever did before. That's probably a good thing.

I just keep coming back to that. I keep coming back to my epiphany and how good I felt and how everything feels differently to me now.

My dad's probably rolling in his grave… if he's dead, for that matter, which I'm still not sure about. But the thing is, it doesn't even matter to me anymore. I need to stop worrying about things that I can't control.

It feels like I've gotten rid of all of the excess emotions. I still love the members of my group and I would still be upset if one of them died… but I've shed my sentimentality and unnecessary sadness. I need to focus on surviving, not pining after things that I have no control over.

I remember a conversation I had with my parents when I was younger, after one of my great uncles died.

* * *

_"Why aren't you crying, Daddy?" I ask curiously._

_"I didn't really know him all that well," Dad shrugs._

_I frown. "So… when someone dies… you're not sad because they're dead, you're sad because you're never gonna see them again?"_

_Dad gives me a strange look._

* * *

Following that logic, I need to stop being sad about all of the random dead people we encounter every day. I didn't know them.

As for my family, I just need to stop lingering. They're in a better place, and there's nothing I can do about it now. I need to stop lingering on my dad or Lucy. I need to stop lingering on Mom or Fiona. There's nothing I can do anymore except keep on surviving.

Carl and I roll the dice. My country loses two armies. We roll again, and before I can properly examine the dots on the faces—

"We gotta go!" Rick calls.

Those of us in the room exchange glances before we jump into action, snatching our bags and the supplies that we need. I catch a glance of the abandoned Risk board before I'm out the door. I stab a Walker in the head as I run for the car, and then we're all in and driving away.

Escaping a herd has become a choreographed dance. We were all out of there in less than a minute, which is quite a leap from where we were nearly a year ago. We're all a lot better at surviving now.

My breath catches in my throat from the run across the driveway and I have to grapple for my inhaler. I go through the usual motions, though thankfully it doesn't happen very often.

"Everyone alright?" Lori asks as we drive away.

We all give affirmative answers and that's the end of the conversation as we all catch our breath. I take some very careful breaths and stash my inhaler back, most definitely not thinking of what will happen when the world runs out of medicine…

After a few minutes, I say "Are you alright, Lori?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she says, smiling at me in the mirror.

Lori being 'fine' isn't something that we need to worry about just after a herd attack. She's so big I'm worried she could go into labor at any moment, and Hershel is concerned about the way that we keep moving around. If only we could've stayed in those storage lockers for long enough for her to give birth…

But once again, lingering on things isn't productive. 'What if's are pointless; we need to focus on what we're doing in the present.

"So where are we going now?" Carol asks.

"There's another neighborhood a few miles away that I was talking to Glenn about raiding," Rick replies "We'll head there."

The ride to the new group of houses only takes a few more minutes, and after checking the street for any random Walkers we head down a gravel drive leading to a house set further back than the rest. From there it's more of the same; clear the house, move in, check for supplies. Apparently this place is pretty looted, because nobody comes back with anything useful.

Within a few minutes we're all sitting in the new living room. None of us are talking. Daryl comes in with a dead owl, sits in the chair I'm leaning against, and starts plucking it.

I want to make some sort of sarcastic remark to him, since he seems to be a lot more comfortable around me, which I find strange. From what I understand, sex is supposed to make things complicated, but Daryl doesn't exactly strike me as a person that's ever had a real relationship. We haven't discussed it in any way and he hasn't given any indication that he expects it to happen again; he just seems more comfortable around me.

I consider that sarcastic remark again, but he seems pretty focused on the owl. Maybe he had to leave something behind at the house and he's grumpy.

I think of the absolutely _atrocious _poncho he found about a month ago. I hope it was that.

Then Carl comes in with two cans and at first I smile, but then I realize that he's holding wet dog food, which might be one of the saddest things I've seen in a long time. He starts to open one of the cans and nobody says anything. I don't either. If he can stomach it, I won't stop him.

I'm about to pull out a book when Rick finally steps over, yanks the dog food out of Carl's hand, and throws it into the fireplace with a loud clang.

A few of us jump and some owl feathers end up in my face, but we all recover pretty quickly. I start absentmindedly playing with the feathers.

Boredom again.

This time, though, I don't long for the Internet or TV or video games. I'm fine playing with owl feathers or reading a book. That's just how it is now.

I've accepted it.

I tuck a feather behind my ear because it probably looks kind of funny, close my eyes, and lean my head back. Clearly this isn't a poker kind of day, but I'm fine just sitting around. Maybe I can take a quick nap.

Then I hear T-Dog make a hissing noise and that's it, the end of the break. We all gather our things and rush out the door again as another group of Walkers, or perhaps the same one we just ran from, attempts to get at us.

And we're on the road again.

We don't really know where we're going this time. We stop after a while to have an impromptu meeting in the road, but there's really not that much to talk about; we just have to head in a direction that we haven't cleared out and isn't crawling with Walkers. Unfortunately, that doesn't leave us many options, but we work with what we have.

While we're stopped, T-Dog, Carol, and I go to refill our water jugs at a creek, and when we return there's a new plan. We're not moving on, we're staying here. There's a prison on the other side of the woods.

A prison. A prison has walls, room to grow things, and lots of space for us all to spread out. A prison… a prison can work. Why have we never thought of a prison before?

Answer; nobody ever wants to go to a prison. It's ironic that it's now the perfect place.

We all trudge through the woods and catch sight of the place.

A prison with two layers of fencing and big watch towers and concrete walls and… this is brilliant. This is exactly what we need. I can already imagine taking watch in that tower, killing off the Walkers that line up around the fence.

I don't know if this will be temporary or if we'll try to make it permanent, but I do know that this is at least a safe place for Lori to have her baby, and a place that we can live for a few months. If we can get food growing in that yard… well, then we'd really have something going.

But I'm being optimistic, and optimism rarely pays off these days. Still, I can't keep the hesitant smile off of my face as we approach the fences.

We make our way carefully down a hill, which is the most difficult for Lori, but we all make it down, cross a stream, and then we're outside of the prison which may be our new home.

Rick cuts the wire of the outer fence and we all start shuffling inside. I kill a straggling Walker before making my way into the space between the two fences. It's a long road of white pebbles, and I have no idea what it could have been for other than just having a second fence. But that second fence sure will be helpful.

What kept people in before will now keep the Walkers out.

We make our way down the alley between the fences and to the actual entrance to the prison, which is in itself its own space surrounded by fencing. We get through a door and we're in this space, and we're all looking at the entrance to the prison yard. It's very big and spacious; a dirt road leads from the gate in front of us up to the prison itself, and there's another fence separating the concrete prison yard from the field.

The problem? The entire place is teeming with Walkers. I remember the news reports in the early days saying that prisons were releasing their inmates, but apparently this place didn't get the memo. This is why you can't be optimistic.

"It's perfect." says Rick, and it sounds like a prayer. "If we can shut that gate, prevent more from filling the yard, we can pick off these Walkers. We'll take the field by tonight."

I look at the gate separating the field and the courtyard. I suppose if we shut that we would prevent the new ones from coming through, but it's the same problem; the place is absolutely crawling with Dead-Ones. Even though it's possible… I'm skeptical.

"_How_ do we do that?" I ask a bit disbelievingly "It's completely overrun."

"I'll do it," Glenn volunteers "You guys cover me."

"No, it's a suicide run." Maggie says automatically. Even if she's just trying to keep Glenn from doing something dangerous, I'm inclined to agree.

"I'm the fastest," Glenn argues.

"No." says Rick firmly "You, Maggie, and Beth draw as many as you can over there—" he points to the left side of the field "Pop them through the fence. Daryl, go back to the other tower. Carol, you've become a pretty good shot, take your time, we don't have a lot of ammo to waste. Hershel, you and Carl, take this tower."

"Alright," says Carl, looking excited.

I almost want to argue, because I'm just as good a shot as Carl, Hershel, or Carol, but I don't want to be petty. I just do as I'm instructed, which is to help kill the Walkers through the fence.

Maggie, Beth, Glenn, T-Dog, and I make our way back to the pebbled alley. T-Dog hands me a fireplace poker for a weapon and we stay closer to the gate while the other three go down farther. Carol, Daryl, Hershel, and Carl in positions in the watch towers, and Lori is about to open the gate for Rick.

We start yelling for the Walkers.

"Over here!" I scream "Come get us ya ugly bastards! Right here!" I shake the gate "Nice tasty meal! Right here, come get us! C'mere!"

I keep yelling, and when we've attracted enough Walkers I feel the fence vibrate as the gate is opened. I yell louder. "C'mon! Ignore the nice man running into your field! Come get me! I taste _way_ better! C'mon now!" One of them gets close enough to me and I stab the poker through his head. Given the angle, it takes more strength than usual, but I'll manage.

We keep yelling, and I'm trying to watch Rick but the Walkers keep coming up to the fence and I lose sight of him. I stab another and grunt from the exertion, but once again I'm fine. I stab a third, lose my balance as I pull out the poker, and fall to the ground with a frustrated and slightly pained grunt.

"You alright?" T-Dog yells.

"Fine!" I yell back, standing up. I'm not really fine; my butt hurts and the impact rattled my stomach. Also, my pride is somewhat injured. But I don't think anyone's ever died from that last one, so I'm fine enough.

I try not to be so aggressive with the next Walkers I stab, but it's still difficult. Then I hear Daryl yell "Light it up!" and I know that Rick's reached the gate. Or he's dead, but I don't linger too long on that thought.

We stop yelling quite so loudly, but we do have to attract the rest of the Walkers to us. The gunshots increase in frequency and I keep stabbing through the fence, and after several minutes the last Walker goes down.

I laugh gleefully and hug T-Dog, who's grinning.

We all meet up at the gate that leads into the yard, go around the overturned bus making a barricade, and look around; lots and lots of free space surrounded by two fences. If you ignore the dozens of dead bodies, it's kind of beautiful. I can't remember the last time I felt secure.

Carol's whooping and spreading her arms. "We haven't had this much space since we left the farm!" she yells happily. The farm. Can't say I ever really got around to exploring the farm, but I'll take her word for it.

A disabled Walker on the ground reaches for me, and I stomp in his head without a second thought. These boots have seen worse and I really don't feel like stabbing again.

Everyone's laughing and whooping and I join in. The fences make me feel safe, even though I know that's foolish; you should never feel safe. But it's nice to have a break.

We pick a spot in the middle of the yard and start moving bodies away and setting down our bags. We roll out our sleeping bags and blankets around one central location while Daryl and Glenn go back outside the fence to get firewood. Rick starts walking the perimeter, looking for breaches, but he doesn't seem to find any.

The sun starts to fall and we light the fire and start cooking our dinner.

Rick is still walking the perimeter, which seems kind of pointless by now, but nobody stops him; he's just worried about all of us.

Daryl's standing on that bus by the front gate, keeping watch. Carol goes to join him, and I watch them talk for a few minutes. I look away when he starts to give her a back rub.

I think that I should probably be jealous, but I'm not. It would be nice if they got together; they get along very well, and Daryl definitely talks to Carol more than me. Maybe that'll happen if we stay here for a long time, if they start to feel safe.

_Ah, maybe's._

Tomorrow we'll get rid of the bodies and bring the rest of our stuff in. Tomorrow we'll start making this into a place that we can all live, at least for a while. Maybe in a few days we'll start a farm. Maybe in a few weeks we'll clear out the rest of the prison and make it into a real home. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe's are better than what if's, but I still don't want to linger on them.

I'll focus on the fact that I feel pretty good right now. My stomach is relatively full and my friends are safe for the first time in a long while.

Despite the fact that we got run out of _two _houses, I think that this was a good day.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Okay! *ducks, expecting flying fruit, wipes away sweat when it doesn't come* I was nervous about this chapter for 3 reasons: 1, the many Daryl/Insert-Character-Here shippers that I would irritate. 2, the people that are sick of Daryl/Insert-Character-Here shippers. And 3, the fact that this topic makes me uncomfortable, and I fear that it shows in my writing.

So whether you hated it or you loved it, just keep reading please. This is a plot point that's necessary for later, and trust me when I say it was worse for me than for you. I tried to completely unromanticize the whole thing, so as not to anger the shippers or the anti-shippers, or to give the illusion that this will develop into a love interest, which I still maintain it will not.

So... sorry about this Author's Note. I just refuse to leave this chapter without some sort of... talking to you. I guess.

Also, since we're now getting back into actual show territory: If I ever get any lines/actions wrong, you can blame either the transcripts that I'm using or the fact that this is technically an AU fic, which means that things can be different.

Much love to you all. Review, favorite, and follow!

**End Author's Note.**


	16. The Beginning of Home

Beth has the most beautiful voice I've heard in some time. I'm not just biased because I haven't heard music in nearly a year—her singing _is_ really beautiful.

She's singing a song I don't know, and I don't really pay attention to the words, just her voice. It's comforting and relaxing, hearing Beth sing. It makes us all smile, makes us all think that maybe things can get better.

Maggie joins in, and her voice isn't as pretty as Beth's, but the singing is still wonderful. Rick comes over while they're singing and Carl gives him some food, which he gives to Lori.

I try to just keep listening to the song.

When Maggie and Beth finish singing, Hershel says "Beautiful," which I think pretty accurately sums it up. Our bellies are full and we're warm around the campfire. The Walkers can't get to us and we're all together.

Glenn and Maggie lean against each other and he puts a hand on her leg. It makes me smile. Love is always encouraging.

"Better all turn in." Rick says "I'll take watch over there, we've got a big day tomorrow."

"What do you mean?" Glenn asks. It takes me a moment to register why he said this, and then I remember '_Big day tomorrow_.' What's big tomorrow?

"Look, I know we're all exhausted." Rick says "This was a great win. But we gotta push just a little bit more. Most of the Walkers are dressed as guards or prisoners, looks like this place fell pretty early. Could mean the supplies may be intact. They have an infirmary, a commissary."

I understand what Rick's saying. I've been thinking about that cafeteria full of preserved food and that infirmary full of supplies. I don't know what a commissary, but I assume that's full of stuff. The thing is, though, I didn't think we'd be trying to clear out the place for another week or so. We're not ready to clear out this many Walkers, we're all exhausted.

"An armory?" Daryl asks.

We'd _need_ an armory to clear out everything in there in a single day.

"That would be outside the prison itself, but not too far away." Rick assures "Warden's offices would have info on the location. Weapons, food, medicine, this place could be a goldmine!"

"We're dangerously low on ammo." Hershel points out. "We'll run out before we make a dent."

"That's why we gotta go in there. Hand to hand." Rick replies. _Hand to hand_… go in there with a formation, clear it out without guns. That's normal when we're clearing out a house, but a place with this many Walkers? Dangerous. "After all we've been through, we can handle it, I know it. These assholes don't stand a chance."

With that, Rick walks away. Lori gets up and follows him, and the rest of us are left to go to sleep.

"I'm not sure about this," Hershel says to me.

"It's worth it," I reply "The amount of supplies in there… well, it's a_ lot _of supplies. Lori could have the baby, and with these fences… we could stay here indefinitely. Make a home out of it. I just… didn't think we'd be going in there tomorrow."

"I didn't think we'd be going in there at all."

"Think of the food," I say "I don't know how many people stayed in this prison, but they'd have to have enough preserved food in there to feed every single prisoner for a week or two. That much food for only a dozen people? We'll be set for _months_."

Hershel sighs and looks over at Glenn and Maggie, who are talking quietly and seriously to each other. "Maggie'll be going in there."

"Remember the hospital run?" I ask "They all came back from that. You're the one that's always talking about hope."

Hershel smiles and squeezes my hand. "Yes, I am."

XXX

"C'mere!" I yell "Over here! C'mon! Right here! I'm super tasty! Focus on me, not the people walking into your home! That's right, over here! I'm just gonna put a rod through your head! Don't think about it!"

The first Walker reaches the fence and I stab it quickly. I use my foot to push myself away from the fence this time, and it helps in terms of strength, but it doesn't help my balance at all.

Inside the prison courtyard, Rick, Maggie, Glenn, T-Dog, and Daryl are in formation, stabbing any Walker that gets close, trying to make their way inside. It's nerve-wracking to be on the outside of the fence, powerless if anything goes wrong, but this is my job right now.

I successfully stab a few more Walkers before I hear Lori yell "I can't see them! Can you see them?"

I back away from the fence and look over the snarling corpses. I can't see the members of my group anywhere.

"Back there!" says Carol. If she can see them, I'm satisfied. I approach the fence again and stab another Walker, who slides down a bit more grotesquely than the ones before him. There are six Walkers attempting to get to me personally.

I stab another Walker and press my foot again the fence to pull away, but then—

_"Shit!"_ I yell as I fall. A Walker on its knees has a hold of my boot, and is attempting to bite me. It really can't, because it's on the other side of the fence and I'm wearing hiking boots, but it just made me fall hard and now my back hurts.

"Let—go—of—me—" I yell, punctuating each word with a jerk of my foot. Finally, I pull myself away, muttering several colorful curses under my breath.

I stand up with shaking legs and dust myself off. The Walkers are still snarling at me through the fence. I sigh and step forward to kill them, this time without incident.

After several minutes, the rest of the group comes back through the courtyard, killing any stray Walkers and doing a perimeter check before coming to the gate. Rick opens the gate with a grin. "We cleared out a cell block," he tells us.

A cell block. We're going to be living in cells. Fantastic. Maybe just a little bit ironic, given the personality changes I've been going through lately. I never would have imagined going to prison before the world ended.

We all pack up the possessions we brought in yesterday and follow Rick inside the prison. I ignore the bodies scattered around the courtyard—we'll burn those tomorrow or later today. We've seen enough bodies that it doesn't even bother me anymore.

We enter the cellblock and I look around. We're in some sort of common area with round tables. Everything is made of concrete and metal, and the only light is from some barred windows high up on the wall to my right. I can see the cells ahead, and two more metal bar doors that are locked tightly.

Those metal doors… what are they called? Riot guards, I think. My knowledge of prison is rather limited; I never thought I'd see the inside of one.

"What do you think?" Rick asks.

"Home sweet home," Glenn replies with only a hint of sarcasm.

"For the time being," Rick promises.

"It's secure?" asks Lori.

"This cell block is."

"What about the rest of the prison?" asks Hershel.

"In the morning we'll find the cafeteria and the infirmary." Rick answers.

"We'll sleep in the cells?" Beth asks somewhat fearfully.

"I found the keys on some guards." Rick says "Daryl has a set too."

I glance at Daryl, who says "I ain't sleepin' in no cage, I'll take the perch."

The perch? Another thing I don't know, but I'm guessing it's set above everything else.

We all spread out amongst the twenty or so cells, looking for one to call home. I head up the stairs. I'm not entirely sure why I want one of the top cells—maybe some leftover reflex from summer camp.

As I head up the stairs, my steps echo around the walls. Even if I get my own room, there's not going to be any privacy here; every sound is going to carry.

I walk along the small balcony and find a non-bloodstained cell. I walk in and look around, though there's not too much to see. I set down my bag and sit on the mattress, which is surprisingly comfortable.

With a contented sigh, I lie back on the mattress and stretch out. A couple of my bones give satisfying pops, and my muscles turn to mush. I kick off my boots and relax, not worrying about changing out of my bloodstained clothes. I haven't had a mattress in weeks. I like mattresses, mattresses are good.

I can hear the rest of the group still milling about, but I don't worry about it. I don't worry about unpacking or the fact that I'm in a prison. I'm comfortable for now.

I drift into a nice half-doze for several minutes before someone taps me on the shoulder. I open my eyes wearily and see Carl. "Hey," I mumble, closing my eyes again.

"They're about to go into the tombs," Carl informs me.

"The tombs?" I ask.

"Yeah, you know, the rest of the prison."

Oh. I should really get some knowledge about prison terminology. Of all the things I learned before the world ended…

"I'm good," I shrug, not opening my eyes. _Like they'd let me go anyway, _I add mentally.

"Are you alright?" Carl asks, sounding a bit concerned.

"'m fine," I assure him, opening my eyes and turning over. I smile at him. "I'm just tired, Carl."

"You sure?" he pries "I saw you fall when we were out in the yard,"

"Once again, Carl, I'm just tired." I reply exasperatedly "And a girl."

"Maggie's going into the tombs."

"Maggie's a _badass_."

Carl laughs. "Am I?"

"You're getting there," I chuckle, looking up at the boy. He definitely is growing up, and with enough time, badass will be an apt description. "Give it another year or two." We laugh for a moment and then I smack him lightly on the leg "Now go pester someone else, I'm takin' a nap,"

Carl laughs and leaves me to my sleep.

XXX

"…go! In there!"

"Turn it, turn it, turn it!"

"Get him on the bed, he got bit!"

"Oh my God! He's gonna turn!"

I sit up quickly and hop up, clutching the wall when stars appear in my eyes.

"Ready? Okay. One, two, three!"

"Oh, God!"

As soon as the stars disappear, I rush out of my cell and take the stairs two at a time. In one of the cells, everybody's crowded around someone on the bed.

"Who is it?" I yell.

"Hershel!" Glenn calls back.

"Holy crap…" I whisper. Everyone keeps yelling… how did Hershel get _bit_? Did Hershel go into the tombs with the others? Why would he go in there…

Then I hear yelling about bandages. We're out of bandages. Problem and solution. Towels; we can use towels instead of bandages. There are towels in our extra bags—where are those bags? They're in the common area—yeah, that room right over there with the metallic tables.

So I should go get those towels; problem and solution.

I ignore the yelling and rush to the metal-bar door, push it open and—

"What the hell?" I squeak.

Daryl and T-Dog are standing across the room from five men. Those are five_ living_ men in prison jumpsuits, most of which look about as shell-shocked as I feel. Two large black men, one small black man, one brunette man, and one blonde man. Five living, breathing men.

The brunette one has a gun, but he isn't pointing it right now. But I can see it, and he's looking pretty threatening.

"Dawson, get back in there." T-Dog says sternly.

"We—we need towels…" I reply weakly, crossing the room and keeping my eyes on the prisoners. I locate the bag of towels and stoop down. I only glance away from the prisoners for a second, to grab the handles of the bag, and then I look right back.

"Ya got anymore girls in there?" asks the blonde prisoner. I can tell he was just trying to make a joke, but it comes across as pretty… _creepy_.

"Don' even look at 'er." Daryl growls. The man backs down immediately and looks a bit sick. I cross the room and open the metal-bar door again. I duck in and close the door, glancing cautiously once more at the prisoners before finally ripping my eyes away and running to Hershel's cell.

I drop the bag, roughly pull out the first towels I can grasp, and toss them to Carol, who gets right to work. I dig more towels out until there's no more in the bag, and they're all passed into the cell. Carl comes up beside me with more towels, and they're all passed in as well.

I don't even know what's going on, but Hershel's bleeding. Hershel is bleeding very, very badly, but for some reason they think he can be saved. So it's not a bite… but… I heard them yelling about the bite…

Oh my God. He got bit and they cut something off. That's all it can be.

They cut off an arm or a leg because he got bit and now he's bleeding out.

But I remember what Daryl told me months ago about his brother. His brother got himself handcuffed to a rooftop and ended up cutting off his own hand. If Merle Dixon can cut off a hand and get away with no help, surely Hershel can survive some sort of amputation with all of us here to help him.

But Hershel's old.

Oh God.

I back away from the cell and sit down on the metal staircase. I put my face in my hands, take a few deep breaths. Hershel is either going to be okay or he isn't. I just hope to God that it's the former.

"You okay?"

I look up, and once again it's Carl. I give him a half-hearted smile and say "You know, just tired." He grimaces and I sigh.

Rick separates himself from the group around Hershel's cell and heads to the common area. They're going to deal with the prisoners. I don't know how they survived so long and I don't know what we're going to do about them. But the thing is that they're _prisoners_. They could be petty shoplifters, pot-smokers, or tax evaders; or they could be murderers and rapists. How can we possibly trust them? What are we going to _do _with them?

"Do you think he's gonna be okay?" Carl asks, jerking me out of my thoughts.

"I dunno…" I sigh "Daryl's brother cut off his own hand and lived, but Hershel's old…"

"He's gonna live." Carl replies resolutely. Well, maybe resolutely isn't the right word. He's more… determined. He's going to _make sure_ that Hershel lives.

"Don't do anything stupid, Carl," I advise. I don't really believe he'd do something as ridiculous as go out for supplies, but he's been getting antsy lately. He's living in a world where he needs to be an adult, but he's treated like a kid. That can make anyone reckless, especially when that person wants to prove themselves.

"I won't," he promises. He doesn't look at me when he says it.

I nod anyway and stand up, make my way up the stairs. There's nothing else I can do for Hershel right now.

I get to my cell and sit down on the bed. I reach for my bag and dig through it—find my favorite blanket and the book I'm reading right now. I lean back against the wall and try to read, but I keep hearing the conversation and occasional cry from downstairs, and knowing what's happening makes me pretty anxious.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Just pretend I'm on the bus again, surrounded by all of those immature kids that I always hated. Pretend I'm just doing homework while everyone else is screaming at each other.

That doesn't work.

I sigh and close my book. I'm already waiting around as it is, I may as well do it where I can see if something happens.

I stand up and make my way to the lower level again. I have a view of Hershel now, his severed leg covered in blood-soaked towels. Beth, Carol, and Lori are inside, Glenn and Maggie are at the other end of the block, and Carl is sitting at the end of the stairs.

"He doing any better?" I ask quietly.

Carl looks at me and shrugs. "I'm just keeping watch," he says. "Dad, Daryl, and T-Dog went somewhere with those prisoners."

I nod and take a seat next to him on the stairs. "We haven't talked too much lately."

"Yeah we have," Carl replies, looking confused.

"No, we've been playing games a lot," I correct "We haven't really _talked_ in a while."

He shrugs. "Nothing to talk about."

I grin and bump his shoulder, whisper "I know you like Beth."

"Do not," he mutters, turning a bit red.

"You _so _do," I giggle, bumping his shoulder again.

We have a few moments of just being silly before I hear a noise out in the common room and we both perk up and get serious again. "They're back." Carl states, immediately standing up and crossing the room. Rick and T-Dog are on the other side of the door with boxes of food.

"Holy crap!" I exclaim happily, jumping up and joining Carl on the other side of the room. That is a_ lot_ of food.

"Food's here!" T-Dog announces as Carl opens the door for them.

"What d'you got?" Carl asks.

"Canned beef, canned corn, canned cans!" T-Dog laughs "There's a lot more where this came from!"

I grin and follow T-Dog and Rick into the cell block as Carl shuts the door again. I'm not only happy about the prospect of food in general, but now I have something to do; I can take inventory of the food.

The food is taken to the cell where we put most of our supplies. "Anymore coming right now?" I ask.

"Later," says T-Dog. Rick's already left. "We made a deal with the prisoners—we get half of their food, we help them clear out a cell block."

"So we're going to live with them next to us?" I ask with raised eyebrows. "That sounds good."

"They're not all bad dudes," T-Dog argues. "We just gotta give 'em a chance."

"If you say so," I reply resignedly. "Just find out what they were in for. You gonna clear out the cell block right now?"

"Yeah,"

"Be careful," I request. T-Dog nods and gives me a quick hug. I smile. "I'll have those canned cans cooked up when you get back."

He chuckles and leaves.

I find the notebook that we use to keep track of supplies amongst our other gear and start examining the boxes of food. It's all canned except for two big bags full of rice and dry beans, but that's not terrible. This food is designed to last for months, unlike most of the imperishable things we've been eating lately.

I write in the notebook what's written on the bags: _100serving rice/100serving beans_. I put the bags to the side and start going through the cans.

It's busy work, but busy work is better than nothing and it makes me feel like I'm at least _doing_ something.

About two hundred or so cans of food later, I hear people talking again. I mean, people have been talking, but this isn't a private conversation.

I stand up and walk out of the storage cell. Carl's standing outside of Hershel's cell, and I can hear him talking "… but I cleared it out!"

I walk slowly towards him and hear Lori reply "You went by yourself?" "Yeah."

He went by himself_ where_?

I reach the cell and peer in over Carl's shoulder: The only new addition is a bag of medical supplies that I've never seen before. He went to the prison infirmary.

"Are you crazy?" Lori asks, her voice faltering.

"No big deal," Carl defends "I killed two Walkers!"

"Alright," says Lori, clearly frustrated. She motions at Hershel "You see this? _This _was with the whole group!"

"We needed supplies, so I _got _them!" Carl argues.

"I appreciate that, but—"

"Then get off my back!"

"Carl, she's your mother," Beth interrupts "You can't talk to her like that!"

There are a few moments of silence, and then Lori starts to say something, but Carl turns on his heel and rushes away. I watch him head upstairs and I sigh. I turn back to Hershel's cell and say quietly "I'll go talk to him."

Before I get a response, I follow Carl upstairs. I find him pouting in one of the cells, which I guess is his.

"Are you here to yell at me too?" the boy spits, not even bothering to look up at me.

"No," I shrug, walking in and sitting down on the bed next to him. Comforting a child—this is something I can do, something I'm good at. "So you went to the infirmary?" I ask.

"Hershel needed the supplies," Carl explains "I had to get them! They were all just sitting around, but I did something—"

"Carl, I'm not mad at you," I interrupt "I think you did the right thing, but you have to understand how your mother is feeling." I pause to let him say something, and when he doesn't I go on "She's worried about your dad, she's worried about the baby, and she's already worried about you. The thought of you running off into a dark, Walker-infested series of hallways scares her to death." I pause again, and when Carl still doesn't reply, I add "You could've asked me to go with you."

"What?" he asks, finally turning to look at me.

"I would've gone with you if you'd asked." I repeat "Lori wouldn't have been so mad if someone had been with you."

Carl looks at me for a bit, and then says "Okay."

"Okay?" I grin at him.

"Okay," he nods.

I get ready to leave, but Carl grabs my wrist and says "Can we just sit here for a bit?" he asks, looking a bit embarrassed "We could… I don't know… we could play cards or something…"

I actually haven't finished sorting the food, but there's time for that later. "Of course." I smile, settling into the bed while Carl gets a pack of cards out of his bag.

We play war for a bit, which is pretty much the most mind-numbing game available within the realm of cards. I can tell that he's still upset, but I've gotten him to calm down, and I'll get him to talk to Lori later.

We've been playing for maybe another half hour or so before Beth starts screaming. _"Somebody help! Somebody! Please, help!"_

Carl and I jump up, ruining our card game, and rush downstairs, where Beth is yelling and crying in Hershel's cell. I look inside. She's completely panicking, and Lori's examining Hershel, feeling for his pulse… not finding one.

"Oh God…" I whisper, barely audible over Beth's cries. Carl pulls out his gun and aims it at Hershel's head, ready to shoot. Lori starts doing CPR, but I don't think there's any point. I had hoped that he would make it, but he's going to die. Lori's trying to save him, but… how much can we do?

Suddenly, Hershel grabs Lori's hair and we all scream, but then he relaxes and lets out a snore.

Hershel's alive. Lori saved Hershel. Everything's okay.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and take a moment to calm myself down. After I've done this, I put a hand on the arm that Carl's holding out and force him to lower his gun. He does so and tucks it back in his belt. "It's gonna be okay," I whisper. Carl looks at me, and then nods.

"It's gonna be okay," he repeats.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

*wipes away last of sweat* phew! So last chapter went over very well! And it's gonna be okay! Well, not really, since you know the badness that happens next, but hey! Walking Dead!

Anyway, much love and please review.

**End Author's Note.**


	17. The Beginning of Death

The time passes as slowly and tensely as it did before, but at least now we're fairly confident that Hershel is going to make it. His breathing is steady and the bleeding has stopped for the most part. Still, Hershel's old; there's no guarantees.

Carl and I sit on the stairs again, waiting for something to happen. We play red hands and chopsticks and concentration sixty-four, the kind of games that don't require us moving from our post to get our deck of cards; we're both too keyed up to do that.

Finally, we hear footsteps and the creaking of the metal prison doors, and Rick, Daryl, and T-Dog return.

"How's Hershel?' Rick asks immediately, moving to peer inside the cell.

"He stopped breathing, Mom saved him," Carl replies.

"It's true," says Glenn.

"Still no fever," Lori adds.

Rick enters the cell and leans down next to Hershel. I linger at the door to the cell and peer inside, waiting to see what Rick will say, and then—

Hershel's mouth opens. Then his eyes.

"Daddy?"

"Daddy! Daddy!"

Beth and Maggie are crying and laughing and hugging, everybody's smiling, and Hershel is gripping Rick's hand. I give Carl a relieved hug and we both sigh. It's kind of a _'Thank God'_ sigh.

After a few minutes of quiet celebration everyone disperses, some to their own cells and some to other parts of the prison. Maggie, Beth, and Glenn stay with Hershel, who's looking pretty good for having just almost died.

I follow T-Dog to the storage cell, where he's looking through the list of supplies I haven't yet finished. "Damn," he says "This'll keep us for a while," he turns and grins at me "Still got more coming, too."

"The prisoners?" I ask.

T-Dog frowns and sighs heavily, shakes his head. "One of 'em got bit," he says "They didn't understand how to hit the Walkers in the head, started going all prison-riot on 'em. We were trying to tell the guy what the bite meant, but he just wouldn't listen, then one of the other prisoners just lopped him in the head."

I raise my eyebrows. "Harsh," I mumble.

T shakes his head again. "He was a bad guy, tried to kill Rick in the next attack; pushed a Walker on him. Rick had to kill him, then the third one ran off, got swarmed."

"And the other two?"

"They're in D."

I frown. "I don't know what that means…" I reply.

He chuckles darkly. "Cell Block D. We're in Cell Block C."

"Oh," I nod. "Just… you know, never really thought I'd end up in prison."

T-Dog chuckles again and pulls me into a hug. "You alright?"

"You're the one that just killed a bunch of Walkers and watched three guys die," I counter, pulling away from the hug and looking up at him. "Are _you_ okay?"

"I will be."

I nod again and sit down on the box-cluttered mattress. "So… those prisoners… we're just gonna live next to them? Are they joining the group?"

T-Dog shrugs. "Rick doesn't trust them, but they don't seem like bad dudes to me, just didn't have a good lot in life."

"It's just weird," I reason "I mean… it's just been _us _for _so_ long. I got used to just seeing the same people, and suddenly there's just these other guys… it's just weird…" I pause and ask "What were they in for?"

"Drugs, breaking and entering."

"They sound like really stand-up guys," I deadpan.

"We gotta give 'em a chance."

I shrug. "If you say so."

XXX

I don't know exactly what's possessing me to do this. Rick must have said a thousand times today that these prisoners are not to be trusted, that we're not to go near them, that they're not going to be associated with us. But I just have to know more.

The door to their cell block is open when I get there. They've piled several Walker bodies outside, and it seems like they're still clearing out more. I step lightly around the pile and then inside the threshold and look around at the common area of Cell Block D. It looks exactly like ours.

The two prisoners appear, dragging along a body. It's one of the big black ones and the blonde one. I clear my throat.

They look up at me and set down the body. "What?" snaps the black man.

"I just, um…" I hold out the deck of cards I brought over here "Just… thought you might get bored, you know…"

The blonde one opens his mouth but the black one cuts across "We're fine."

I kneel down and set the deck on the floor and stand back up. They're still just standing there. "What're your names?" I ask.

The black one keeps staring at me, stony-faced, but the blonde one speaks up "I'm Axel, this is Oscar. What's your name?"

"Dawson," I reply with raised eyebrows. He seems far too… _eager_.

"Say, that's a pretty name," Axel says hurriedly "You're the girl that came in to get them towels for the guy that's leg got cut off, right? Yeah, you are—I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, but you know, bit of a shock seeing new people after all this time—"

"Man, just shut up," Oscar snaps.

I purse my lips and size the two of them up. Really… they don't seem to be bad guys. Axel may be a bit… crazy, though.

Drugs, breaking and entering.

I think I can pair the crime to the person.

"Not a lot of things make me uncomfortable anymore," I say seriously, staring down the men and trying to seem as scary as possible. "I've been through a lot. And you two don't seem like bad guys to me. I don't have any problem with you staying here. But I want to make one thing perfectly clear," I pause and lean forward, making sure they're getting my seriousness here "If you lay a hand on any person in my group; I don't care in what way or for what reason, I will put a _round in your head_ without a second thought. Understand me?"

Oscar nods seriously. He doesn't seem particularly fazed but I can tell that he understands exactly what I'm saying and respects the fact that right now, I have power over him. Axel, on the other hand, nods his head hurriedly and starts spluttering "Yeah, yeah, of course, never dream of it—"

"Shut _up_," mutters Oscar.

"Good," I say. I give them a light smile and with that, I leave.

XXX

I don't visit the prisoners again. Honestly, I try to just keep them out of mind because they haven't affected our lives in any way.

Beth convinced me to unpack my bag, and I was surprised by all of the random little things I found at the bottom: the splintery lipstick, a handheld mirror, a small notebook, lots of pens, an empty water bottle, a few coins, some broken crayons, a handheld copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

I make up my bed with sheets, blankets, and pillows. I remove the mattress from the top bunk and use it as a shelf for all for the random books I've read and actually managed to keep over the past few months. When we clear out the rest of the prison I'll find the library and expand my collection.

I use the crayons and the notebook I found at the bottom of my bag to make a few random drawings. They're nothing particularly good, but I hang them up on my walls to make the dank grey color scheme feel less… well, dank and grey.

I move in a small chair and table. I use a smaller blanket as a tablecloth and set my other possessions on it, which really isn't much. It's mostly just the extra clip for my gun and a deck of cards; everything else I store in my backpack and under the bed.

Even though it's really a prison cell, I decide that I like my room. It feels like… a home. Kind of. A place that _could _be a home if we try hard enough.

Hershel gets steadily better as the days pass. He makes joke about his leg and somehow manages to stay positive throughout everything. He's an amazing man, Hershel is. Barely a week's passed and already he wants to walk. We told him that he should keep resting, but he says he's getting tired of sitting in that room all day.

Right now, I can hear him stumbling around on the crutches we found for him. I hear Lori, Beth, and Carl helping him along, and I smile as I sort through the food. That man is amazing, and that man is incredibly tough.

I finish counting the cans of green beans and move them to the side with the rest of the food that I've already sorted. I swear we have enough food here to last us through a nuclear winter. I wonder if what we're going through right now is better or worse than a nuclear holocaust? Guess that's a question I'll never find out the answer to.

Still, this is a lot of food. Our rations don't have to be strict anymore, which is nice. My stomach is actually, properly full for the first time in months.

And then I hear a shot.

It's muffled, but I know a gunshot when I hear one.

I immediately stand up and I'm about to rush outside when I hear the snarl and suddenly there's a Walker on top of me—

—how did it get in here—

—pull out my gun, safety off, cock it back, wrench it between our chests and _fire_—

—I get splattered with dead blood and brain matter and I push the very dead Walker off of my and see more coming—

—crawl backwards, back into the storage cell, wrench the door closed just as the Walkers attempt to pounce on me and they hit the iron bars instead.

I take some deep breaths and try to collect my thoughts. How did this happen? Where did they come from?

I hear the sound of a door opening and a lot of the Walkers against the door get distracted. I take the opportunity to grab my knife and stab one of them through the bars of the door. It collapses and another takes it place, I stab it too, it falls, the door wobbles open a bit and I panic as more of the Walkers come towards me—

"This way!"

Maggie. Maggie's voice. Then another door.

The Walkers are distracted again and I push the door open, jump out, stab a Walker in the back of its skull and it drops, but the rest of them are too distracted by whatever it is that Maggie's doing on the other side of the cell block to notice me. I get another one down and this time one of the other Walkers notices me.

It turns around, sees me, ambles forward. I evade its rotting arms and stab it in the head. It goes down.

About half the group sees me now. How many are left? A dozen, I think. Too many for me to handle with my knife, at any rate.

I retreat back to the storage cell and close the door, again, just as the Walkers fall onto it.

I take a deep breath. Calm down, calm down, calm down, and think logically.

I didn't get a real head count, but I assume there are twelve. There are seven trying to get at me right now. I have five rounds left in my gun. Is there any more ammo in here or is it in my cell?

I scramble around and find a half-empty box of the bullets I need. Sigh in relief. There are nine bullets in there. Nine plus five is fourteen, and that should be enough.

I aim my gun through the bars of the door and shoot on of the Walkers lower down. Cock the gun again, release, fire, repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I load in six more bullets and go again. One, two. The Walkers snarling at the cell door are all dead, stacked in a grotesque pile of black blood and rotting flesh on the concrete floor. The other Walkers amble over to me and start pounding the doors. Six of them.

I'll have one more bullet left.

I shoot four of them, reload my gun, and shoot again. Then it's just silence.

My adrenaline is gone. I'm just staring at a pile of dead Walkers and listening to the ringing of the gunshots in my ears. Where did they all come from? Where's the rest of the group?

I sit down on the edge of the mattress and take several deep breaths, slow down my heart rate. I just need to get outside and find the rest of the group, figure out what's going on.

For a few moments I just listen to the silence and the ringing…

And then it isn't silent.

The alarms go off quite suddenly, making me jump, and then I remember that I'm in a _prison_. Of course there are _alarms_. The question is how they got turned on without any electricity and more importantly, _who_ turned them on.

_Who let the Walkers in?_

I step forward and push on the cell door. It budges, but the weight of all the dead bodies is keeping it closed. I push harder, leaning all of my weight on the door, and it opens a bit farther, shoving the Dead-Ones back. I push just a bit harder and there's enough room for me to get through.

I squeeze my way out the door and into the cell block, and just as I'm about to turn I feel a cold hand on my shoulder and a snarl in my ear—

—I jerk away and aim my gun, fire—

—there goes my last bullet.

That time it was _really _the last Walker, and now I'm left alone in the cell block without a clue as to what's going on and an even more profound ringing in my ears. I run into the common area and look around. Nothing appears to be different.

Then the door is wrenched open and I'm hit with sunlight and more alarms—I throw my gun up out of reflex, which is silly because I don't have any more bullets, but I lower it when I see people—my people. Rick, Daryl, Glenn. And the two prisoners, but that's irrelevant.

_"What the hell is going on?"_ I shout over the alarms.

"Someone's turned on the back-up generators!" Rick yells back "We're goin' in, you up for it?"

Am I up for it? I have a gun with no bullets, a knife, my ears are ringing, and I'm already trembling. The group is already moving into the tombs and I follow behind them and shout "Sure!" because apparently I have a death wish.

I run after them into the tombs, put my gun back into my belt and pull out my knife. I brush some hair out of my face and realize just how much blood and gunk I'm covered in.

"Did you see Lori?" Rick asks as we move "Carl? Maggie?"

"I heard Maggie yelling," I reply "The Walkers got distracted by that—saved my life. I also heard the door closing," I add, realizing how bad _'Maggie yelling' _probably sounded.

We reach a room and duck in. It seems like some sort of administrator's office—two Walkers. Both go down without a gunshot or any work on my part. No sign of anybody.

The library. Four Walkers. No gunshots. I stab one. No sign of anybody.

The infirmary that Carl raided. Three Walkers. No gunshots. No sign of anybody.

Another room. Eight Walkers. Two gunshots. I stab one. No sign of anybody. Some Walkers come at us in the hall and we dispatch them easily.

We keep moving through, Rick says that we should split up; I end up with Glenn and Axel. Another room. Three Walkers. No gunshots. I stab one.

More rooms, more Walkers, more stabbing and shooting. I don't understand the layout of the place, but Glenn and Axel seem to, so I just keep following.

A Walker in the hallway, taken out without a second glance.

A gunshot far off, I hope it was just a Walker.

The alarms stop.

The three of us breathe a sigh of relief.

We keep moving through the tombs, stab a few more Walkers, and still don't see any sign of our people. Glenn tells me that Carol and T-Dog should be in here, too. Axel gives me a rag to clean off my face. He tells me it's covered in blood.

We keep moving through the ever-confusing labyrinth that is this prison, and finally we turn a corner and see the other group; Rick, Daryl, and Oscar.

"No sign of them," I say breathlessly.

"Let's head back to the yard," says Rick "Maybe they got back there,"

We all turn a few more corners and see two Walkers, but these two are eating. Eating something that used to be alive. Eating something that used to be alive, and big, and a person, and a man…

It's T-Dog.

I let out a small sound that I don't completely recognize as the Walkers are killed. Daryl picks something up off the ground and I realize what is; the scarf that Carol was wearing earlier.

T-Dog and Carol are gone.

I let that simmer for about a second and a half before I aim a kick at the head of one of the already-dead Walkers.

God, I really, really, really, fucking _hate _Walkers! I hate them, and if I could, I would kill them all bare-handed.

"Let's keep moving," says Rick quietly.

And we do.

We move through the tombs and I take out my aggression on the Walkers that we find. I'm almost glad that I ran out of bullets, because stabbing them is much more satisfying.

No, I need to stop thinking about that. If I start thinking like that I'm going to make a mistake and one of the Walkers is going to get me.

But then I think of T-Dog, sweet Theodore Douglas, who spent time with me back on the farm even when I wouldn't talk and who drove around in his church van for all of the senior citizens when all of this started and how he could always make me laugh—

I stab the next Walker, as well.

I don't think I've ever been really, properly angry like this.

But I need to stop being angry. Being angry is going to get me killed. I decide that I can allow myself to be angry until we get out of the tombs, and then I'll start thinking with my head again.

Of course, that doesn't work. In my rage I almost miss a Walker coming at me from behind, which Daryl has to pull me away from. He growls "What the hell're ya doin'!" into my ear, but I ignore him and shrug off his arms. I don't think I like those arms around me anymore.

I think that my rage is somewhat quelled by the time we get back into the yard, but it doesn't help when the only people I see are Beth and Hershel.

"Hershel!" Rick yells.

"You didn't find 'em?" Hershel calls.

"We thought maybe they came back out here," Glenn replies

"What about T?" Hershel asks "Carol?"

I sigh heavily and kneel down, taking some deep breaths as it's explained to Hershel that T-Dog and Carol didn't make it. I know where this is going; back into those tombs. I can't go back in there or I'm going to get myself killed.

"We're goin' back!" Rick is saying "Daryl an' Glenn, you come with me…"

He trails off. He hears something. I hear it too. I stand up and look around. I hear the gate creaking and turn to see Maggie and Carl. Carl's face is completely expressionless, while Maggie looks like she might break down at any second.

I hear the wailing, and I know that it's coming from that little bloody bundle in her arms.

Rick is crying and not understanding, but I understand perfectly fine. I step forward and take that little crying bundle from Maggie, followed by Glenn who takes her into his arms and holds her as she starts crying. I shush the little bundle as Rick collapses to the ground and starts crying.

Lori's baby doesn't stop wailing.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Since one reviewer said "No! I don't want this story to end!" Allow me to clarify: 'The Beginning' is almost done. After that, I'll take about a week or two to write ahead and then I'll start posting the Lucy story, which I finally have a name for! (everybody cheers) 'Welcome to the New World' will be the Lucy story. I'll give you more updates from there.

Anyway, favorite, follow, and review! I'll give you love and imaginary cookies!

**End Author's Note.**


	18. The Beginning of Lil' Ass-Kicker

I use every trick in the book. I use every tactic I've ever used to calm down a baby, but with this little creature I just can't manage it.

All of the babies that I've ever cared for were well-fed, warm, and were not surrounded by crying people. I've gotten it to quiet down a bit, but it hasn't stopped making noise.

I wrap the makeshift blanket tighter around the baby and catch a glance between its legs—it's a girl. It's a she.

I hold her closer and rock back and forth, still trying to get her to calm down. Rick isn't crying anymore, but he seems a bit out of it, and after a moment he storms off into the tombs. I know exactly what he's doing; I was doing it just a few minutes ago. Rick is going off to kill his feelings.

I step over to Hershel and hand the baby to him "It's a girl," I whisper.

He nods and takes her gently, examining her. Everybody else is talking about food, but I'm focused on this little girl.

I think of Jamie.

No, don't think of Jamie. Don't linger.

Just think of this little girl. She's an important enough reason to drag your attention away. Don't linger on the past.

"The good news is she looks healthy," Hershel informs us "But she needs formula, and soon, or she won't survive."

Immediately, a voice behind me growls out "No. No way, not 'er. We ain't losin' nobody else, I'm goin' for a run."

I turn to look at Daryl, who's already getting his motorcycle prepared. He looks angrier than I've ever seen him, and I can't tell if it's scary or not.

"I'll back you up," Maggie says immediately.

"You sure you wanna do that?" I pipe up hesitantly "I mean, you just…"

Maggie shoots me an intense look and shakes her head "Not letting anythin' happen to that little girl," she turns back to Daryl "I'm goin' with you."

I nod and turn back to Hershel, reaching out to take the baby again. He hands her over to me and I cuddle her to my chest. She gurgles and waves a fist at me, then starts crying quietly again. I try to shush her again as Daryl and Maggie leave to get supplies for her. I'm unsuccessful.

"You want me to take 'er?" asks Beth, appearing beside me. "I'm good with kids,"

"So am I," I mutter, rocking the little girl again.

"Dawson… you need to get cleaned up, you're covered in blood," Beth whispers.

I remember being in the tombs, Axel handing me a rag to wipe the blood off of my face, brushing my hair back and realizing that it was sticky and had chunks in it. The Walkers that fell on me…

I nod and mutely hand the baby to Beth, who immediately starts on the same pointless comforting pattern that I tried. I head inside and to the shower block. I have to pass lots of bodies to get there, but none that are only half-dead. When I get there I make sure there are no Walkers in there, and no way they could sneak up on me if they got in.

I turn on one of the showers, which we figured out how to work yesterday. The water is cold and we don't trust it enough to drink, but it's running water, and that freezing cold might just be what I need right now.

I stand under the spray and let the cold wash my mind out. Lots of lots of death today. But don't dwell on the death, focus on Lori's baby girl.

That baby is going to grow up and she's going to be badass. That baby is going to beat this world, that baby is going to live to a ripe old age. We're going to make sure of it.

I glance at the red water on the shower floor. I feel like I've been standing under the spray long enough for it to have gone clear or at least pinkish by now, but I've never dealt with that many Walkers at a time. Maybe it's so matted into my hair that it's taking a particularly long time.

I reach out for a bottle of shower gel, squeeze out a tiny bit, and lather it into my hair. Scrub the blood out. I rinse out the suds and look down at the water again. It's pinkish this time, but it still feels weird. I run my hands through my hair again; it feels smooth. I raise one wet lock in front of my face to examine; it's the normal dark brown color it gets when it's wet.

I rub my hands over my face and stand directly under the freezing water. Look down. The water is still pink. Why is the water still pink? I'm not bleeding, I've washed all the blood off of my body…

I turn off the shower and make my way to the table we've set up in here, because that table has a mirror. There must be one big chuck of Walker guts that I'm completely missing. I stumble a bit… I'm light-headed… I'm feeling dizzy. But that's normal, that's just shock taking over.

I reach the table and grab the mirror, hold it up to examine myself. I look all over and I don't see anything except blood running steadily down the inside of my legs…

And then I just see black.

* * *

"…Look at me. Dawson, look at my face."

I try to focus on the face… Glenn's face. Focus on Glenn's face.

"Okay, good," he says. Then I'm being lifted up and we're moving. Moving through the darkness, around the halls, moving… why is Glenn carrying me?

"Is she gonna be okay?" Carl.

"I dunno, we gotta get 'er to Daddy." Beth.

Something's crying. The baby.

"What's wrong?" Hershel.

"I went to check on 'er an' she was just collapsed." Beth.

"Set 'er down, let me get a look." Hershel.

"Daddy…" Beth "She was bleedin'… like she was back at the farm… when she lost 'er baby."

My baby? My baby that was never born that I lost nearly a year ago? What does that have to do with anything?

"Dawson, can you look at me?" Hershel. I turn my head and try to focus on his face. "Good, I need you to answer something for me; have you been having sex?"

Sex? Have I been having sex? I haven't _been having_ sex… I _had_ sex… once. But I know that's what Hershel means. "Mm hm…" I mumble out.

Somebody sighs. "There isn't much we can do but let it pass," Hershel says "Carl, get some ibuprofen. Beth, get something to help clean her up."

"But she's delirious," Glenn "I mean, isn't there something we can do…"

"She likely hit her head when she fell," Hershel "And it's possible she's in shock from the events of today. Like I said, there isn't much we can do."

Delirious? Shock? Is that me? Huh… how strange…

"Dawson." Beth's voice. "Can ya just keep lookin' at me?"

I try to focus again. Focus on Beth's golden hair. "Mm hm…"

"Good, just keep lookin' at me," she repeats. Why is she so intent on me looking at her? Why does she keep saying that? I swear, she's saying it every ten minutes… keeping me looking at her. I focus more and more on her face… pale eyes, pale skin… that necklace of hers dangling over me. My stomach starts cramping and my head starts pounding… the crying keeps coming…

Beth moves and someone else sits down. This person doesn't have a necklace. They have darker hair and eyes… focus on that person… Carl.

I try to sit up, only to be pushed back down. "You're supposed to stay in bed."

I focus better. I make out Carl's freckles. "You're not the boss of me," I reply with a small grin. He doesn't smile back.

"Hershel said you're supposed to stay in bed," he repeats.

The crying continues on in the background, and I remember why Carl is so completely unamused. Lori… oh God, Lori died. Today? Was that today or yesterday? Either way, the kid just lost his mom.

I reach out a hand to take Carl's, but he snatches it away. "I'll go tell Hershel you're awake," he mutters. He stands up and leaves me feeling just a little bit shocked.

I remember those thought and fears I had months ago, that Carl would go cold. Here it is… it's happening right now, and I'm not sure there's anything I can do to stop it. He just lost his mother, had to watch her die as she gave birth… that would've turned a kid in the old world crazy.

I sit up in bed and stretch my muscles. I'm really sore, and the headache pounds on.

I hear the thumps of Hershel's crutches on the ground before I see him, and as he enters the cell I give him a smile. "Hey. What happened to me?"

Hershel frowns and carefully sits down in the chair that Carl just vacated. "Well, it appears that you had another miscarriage."

My thoughts freeze. My body freezes. Miscarriage.

Again.

_One absolutely amazing night while we were staying in an abandoned motel…_

Miscarriage…

"What?" I whisper.

"I asked you if you'd been having sex," Hershel says, looking concerned "And you said yes, but you were pretty out of it, so if you haven't then we may have a worse—"

"No, I did…" I whisper "I just… I didn't know—that I was…"

Hershel grips one of my hands tightly "I won't ask anymore," he promises "You've been asleep for a few hours, and the bleeding has all but stopped. You should take it easy for the next week or two, but in the long run you should be fine."

I nod mutely. We sit for a few moments, and I ask "How's Lori's baby?"

"She still seems healthy, but she's getting hungry," Hershel replies "Hopefully Maggie and Daryl will be back with the formula soon."

Hopefully. Nobody wants to think about what will happen if Maggie and Daryl don't come back with the formula. That would mean that they're dead, and then the baby will die too…

My baby's dead. Again. Two babies now.

This one was Daryl's.

I feel the sudden urge to throw up. There's no way in hell I'm telling Daryl about this. Of course, there's always the chance he'll hear it from someone else, and he'll know that the baby was his…

_Was._

Don't linger. This was for the best. Daryl and I would be crappy parents and this world is no place for a child to grow up. So don't linger.

"Has Rick named her yet?" I ask.

Hershel hesitates for a few moments before answering "Rick's having some troubles."

"What kind of troubles?"

"He's been in the tombs, killing Walkers…" Hershel sighs heavily "Glenn went to talk to him, but he didn't get anywhere."

Rick is lingering. Rick is putting himself in danger because of it. That's why I can't linger on things, because lingering leads to sadness and sadness leads to mistakes.

"Where are the prisoners?" I try.

"Digging graves."

Clearly there's no hope for any kind of uplifting conversation today. I sigh heavily and move my feet off the bed. "I'll go to my cell," I say "Read for a while." Hershel nods. I stand up and leave the cell, head up the stairs, and go to my own cell. I catch a glimpse of Beth attempting to quiet down the baby, but she's clearly as unsuccessful as I was.

I pick a book off of my 'shelf' and sit down in my bed. Before I can open it Beth comes in, the baby cradled in her arms in a real blanket. "Hey," she says.

"Hey," I set down the book and sit up taller, holding out my arms. Beth smiles again and places the little girl in my arms. She starts crying louder for a few moments, then settles back down to the volume she's been using for what I assume is the past few hours. "C'mon, baby girl, we'll get some food in you soon…"

"I got 'er to fall asleep for about an hour earlier," Beth sighs, sitting down next to me. The look on her face reminds me a lot of my aunt when she had to take care of all the kids alone. "But she just won't stop…"

"She'll quiet down when we get that formula," I assure her "It sucks that we lost the stuff that we gathered over the winter…" I add. It was hard to keep track of anything that wasn't in our own bags when we got swarmed by a herd, and we lost collections of baby clothes and formula more times than I can count.

The baby lets out a particularly loud squeal and I frown. I stick my thumb in her mouth and she starts sucking on. This'll only work for a minute or so, but it's enough for Beth to visibly relax. "How'd you know to do that?"

I shrug "Won't last long, but I've done it to my cousin Jamie when I couldn't find his pacifier."

Beth smiles and stroked the head of the temporarily quiet baby. There are a few wisps of light hair there. "I always wanted to have children," Beth sighs.

"I never really gave it much thought," I reply "But I guess I would've wanted that, too… But you never know, you could still have a baby one day."

"So could you," Beth says.

Doubtful. It's possible that both of my miscarriages were caused by trauma or my age, but it's also possible that I'm just not capable of carrying a baby to term. And after everything that's happened, I think that my view on having a family has changed quite a bit.

"Not me," I whisper.

Beth places a hand on my shoulder "Daddy said that…" she trails off uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't even know," I shrug "And it's probably for the best."

"Erm…" Beth's face turns a bit pink "Would it be rude if I asked—I mean—was it T-Dog?"

I raise my eyebrows. T-Dog? No! He's like a dad!

_Was_ like a dad.

But I have to tell Beth, because if I don't she'll assume the worst. I wonder what the worst is? Glenn, maybe. Beth's a pretty soft-spoken girl, but I think she might actually threaten to shoot Glenn if it was him…

I smile uncomfortably and shake my head "No… no. It was… er—it was Daryl."

Beth's face contorts for a few moments before she just says _"What?"_

Before I can answer, the baby girl spits my thumb out and starts squealing again. I sigh and Beth reaches over to take her, but I keep her held close to my chest. "Just don't ask anymore," I tell her over the crying "There's nothing in the story that'll make you feel any better,"

The baby girl lets out a particularly loud cry and I try bouncing her up and down. She hiccups and just keeps going. I let out a heavy sigh and look at Beth again "I remember this being a lot easier."

She gives me a half-hearted smile and reaches for the baby again. This time I hand her over, and within a few seconds Beth and the baby are out of the cell. The cries fade, but I'm going to hear her unless Beth goes outside; everything echoes in here.

I sigh again and settle back onto my bed, very much not lingering. Pick up the book, open to where I dog-eared it, and find the paragraph I stopped at. Oh look, I stopped at the end of a chapter; that makes things much easier.

_It was after nightfall when, wet and tired, the travelers came at last to the Brandywine, and they found the way barred. At either end of the bridge there was a great spiked gate; and on the further side of the river they could see that some new houses had been built: two-storeyed with narrow straight-sided windows, bare and dimly lit, all very gloomy and un-Shirelike._

_They hammered at the outer gate and called—_

The baby screams very loudly and I drop the book on my chest with a frustrated sound. I don't want to be upset with a baby, but nobody's going to be able to get anything done today, and quite frankly, I _need_ to get lost in Middle Earth.

"Sing to 'er!" I yell, hurting my own ears.

"What?" Beth's voice barely makes it to me.

"You sound like a freakin' angel! Sing to 'er!"

Several seconds pass, and then the baby's cries start to get drowned out by the lyrics of some Southern song I could never name. The baby doesn't stop crying completely, but it's definitely an improvement.

I pick the book back up and stare at the page. I think I was on the second paragraph. I don't know. What I do know is that that whole 'lost in Middle Earth' thing probably isn't happening anytime soon.

I think about the baby crying downstairs. We need to call her something other than _the baby_. Would it be lingering if I suggested Jennifer or Lucy or Julie or Fiona? I don't think so. It doesn't make me sad to think of calling her any of those names… just a bit nostalgic, I guess. Is nostalgia bad?

Once again, I sigh. Hold up the book, try to read. I do manage it for a chapter or so, but the baby's cries start up all over.

We're starting to lose the light now. I should probably go get dinner soon. Or maybe someone will bring dinner to me. I don't smell anything cooking. I guess I'm not the only one that isn't hungry.

I resolute myself to finishing the chapter that I'm on, and it takes pretty much all my concentration. By the time I'm finished, the baby girl is screaming louder than ever and the light's so dim I can barely see the words on the page.

I roll out of my bunk and test my muscles. I'm still sore, but it's not as horrible as it was earlier. If my past experience is any indication, I'll feel bad for a few days.

I frown at how clinically I'm thinking about this. Maybe clinical is good, though. Isn't that what I've been trying to achieve with the whole 'no-lingering' thing?

I put the book back on the shelf and then I hear a bit of a commotion downstairs. "They're back!"

My eyes widen and before I really register what I'm doing I'm flying down the stairs. I see a few stars and the world spins for a second, but I'm fine. I get to the common area just as the wailing stops and I see Daryl holding the baby girl, rocking her back and forth, cooing to her as she suckles on the bottle he's holding. My mouth drops for about a second.

I guess I take back what I said earlier. Maybe Daryl wouldn't have been a crappy dad. But I would _definitely_ be a crappy mom.

"Where'd you get that?" I ask indignantly.

Daryl looks up and grins. "What?" he asks.

"The whole…_ fatherly _thing!" I stutter, letting out a small laugh "You never really struck me as… _fatherly_."

"I try," he mutters. He looks at Carl "She got a name yet?"

"Not yet," Carl shrugs "But I was thinking… maybe Sophia."

I can feel the atmosphere shift. I didn't know Sophia… but they did. Carol's little girl. The one that Daryl was looking for when he found me, when I thought he was calling for Fiona. Probably the only friend his age that Carl's going to have for the rest of his life… or did have.

"And then there's Carol, too," Carl goes on "And…" he sighs heavily "Andrea… Amy, Jacqui, Patricia, or… _Lori_…" he turns away and says "I don't know," like he's almost embarrassed for suggesting it.

It's scary, the way the names could pile on like that. And that list probably isn't even half the people they lost before I met them. I don't even _know _who Jacqui is. I vaguely remember Amy being Andrea's sister, but I never met her, either.

Everybody's pretty solemn now, so I bite my lip and look at Daryl, whose attention is still pretty focused on the baby. He mutters something under his breath and the baby gurgles. "You like that?" he asks a bit louder "Lil' Ass-Kicker?" He looks up at us "Right? That's a good name, right?"

We all laugh, and Daryl looks back at the newly christened baby girl. "Lil' Ass-Kicker, huh? You like that? Lil' Ass-Kicker?"

We all smile, and I'm struck again by the concept that Daryl _might _have actually been a good father. He probably would have loved and protected that baby to the moon and back…

But it doesn't matter. Because the world still sucks. The world's still full of death and dismay, and even with all of us to protect her, Lil' Ass-Kicker's going to be facing danger around every corner.

So even though my baby died, it was still for the best.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I suspect this story will be about 25 chapters now.

Please favorite, follow, and review.

**End Author's Note.**


	19. The Beginning of The New Dynamic

"They are gone, but not forgotten," Hershel says solemnly.

Those words are quite funeral-esque.

We all throw our handfuls of dirt onto the fresh graves, only one of which even has a body in it. Lil' Ass-Kicker gives a soft cry and Beth adjusts the blanket she's using to shield her from the sun.

After the few moments of silence are over, Daryl breaks away and heads back to the prison at a fast walk. He's pretty torn up about Carol.

It's almost strange to think of Daryl having any sort of real emotions… but he clearly cares about Carol. That's been apparent to me for a while. Even though we've slept together, I know that if Daryl had to save either Carol or me, he'd pick Carol. They were close. It's just a fact.

Even though I didn't spend all that much time with her, it feels strange that Carol isn't here anymore. Like there's some intrinsic part of the family unit that's missing.

Three parts of that unit were ripped away, and replaced with three different pieces that are entirely different.

It's so strange.

I look back to the grave that holds the half-eaten remains of T-Dog. He's the one I spent the most time with, the one I knew the best. Now he's just gone. The strangest part of all is that I don't feel any tears threatening me. I think that part of my brain may finally have been put to rest with the deaths of Lori, T, Carol, and my second baby.

No more crying.

Lil' Ass-Kicker lets out another squeal and Beth breaks away from the group to follow Daryl back indoors. It's not much cooler in there, but it's better than having the sun right in your face.

The rest of us exchange solemn looks before parting ways.

XXX

_"Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. I'll be waiting; all that's left to do is run. You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess. It's a love story, baby just say yes. Romeo…"_

I frown and stop rocking the baby for a moment, trying to think.

"What's wrong?" Beth asks.

"Can't remember the rest of the lyrics…" I say quietly "To the song. I can't remember how the rest of it goes…"

I start rocking again and look up at Beth. I can tell that she's thinking hard as well, but after a few moments of silence we both come to the unspoken consensus that we're not going to remember how that song goes. That song that I heard on the radio all the time for weeks before the world ended… how can I just forget the words?

"Doesn't matter anyways," I shrug "She's asleep."

"That won't last long," says Maggie as she and Glenn walk into the room. They have their run bags slung over their shoulders.

"Going out right now?" I ask. We've been talking about a run for more formula in the few days since Lil' Ass-Kicker was born, but we have enough to last us another week or two.

"May as well stock up," Glenn shrugs "What're we waiting for?"

"Rick to get his shit together," I mumble. It's one of those things that kind of slips out, and I meant for it to be quiet, but they still hear.

"Daryl can hold down the fort," Glenn says confidently. Maggie grabs a few bottles of water and tucks them into her bag.

"Daryl's still upset about Carol," I say, trying to keep my voice even so as not to wake the baby "We don't really trust Axel and Oscar yet, Hershel's still weak, _I'm_ still weak—" Maggie looks a bit confused when I say that, but Glenn and Beth frown "There are better times to do this."

"What if we get boxed in by a herd?" Maggie asks. She pulls a bag of chips out of a cabinet and stows them in the bag with the water "We should go while we're still sure everythin' ain't goin' to hell."

I sigh. "Fine, go on, not my decision anyway."

Lil' Ass-Kicker makes a small gurgling sound and for a few seconds I'm afraid she's going to wake up again, but she just shifts her head into the crook of my arm better and goes on slumbering. I sigh again and look back up at Glenn and Maggie "Go before you wake her up, then."

Maggie kisses Beth on the cheek and then the couple is out the door.

"We'll all be fine," Beth says, going back to boiling some rice.

"Famous last words," I quip. She looks back at me and after a few seconds we both grin.

I take a few steps to one of the metal tables and sit down on the table itself. The seats always feel a bit… claustrophobic. I adjust the baby in my arms as I sit and she manages to wrap her little hand around my thumb. I grin and wiggle it a bit, and she latches on tighter.

"I really forgot how small babies are," I laugh. "When my cousin Will was born, I actually saw him before the rest of my cousins. Lucy was so mad at me."

"They all sound great," Beth says. I look up at her and smile. "They were."

"You okay?"

I shrug "New policy. No lingering. Thinking about the good stuff is okay, though."

"Any other good stuff?"

I smile. "When Will was learning to talk, he tried to repeat everything that everybody said, but he always sounded like he was saying 'Bubby,' so that's what Lucy started calling him. Drew was convinced he was going to be the first person to find Bigfoot. And… Julie once threw her dollhouse down the stairs so Fiona wouldn't get it. My aunt didn't let her have dessert for a week and I lost five dollars of the babysitting paycheck."

Beth giggles. "Did ya know that when I found out Maggie was on birth control, I threw the pills in the pond?"

I laugh. "I did not. How old were you?"

Beth shrugs. "I was a bit older than Carl. I still didn't really understand everything, and it scared me to death."

"When I got the Gardasil vaccine, my dad didn't realize what it was until the last injection and we were at the doctor's office. He started flipping out in the middle of the waiting room."

Beth giggles again and then shifts her position. "Really, though… I mean—d'you _feel _okay?"

I shrug. "I've got some cramps and I'm a bit nauseous… but I'm fine. Really."

She frowns, probably disappointed with how casual I'm being, but turns back to the lunch she's preparing. I hold Lil Ass-Kicker close and smile at her sleeping face. I noticed earlier that her eyes are kind of a dark blue. I wonder what they'll change to? Will they get lighter blue like Rick or dark brown like Lori? Or maybe some recessive color that neither Rick nor Lori showed. I also wonder about her hair and her height and all sorts of things.

I snort. It'll be years before any of her looks before permanent. I should stop my speculation.

I hear the creaking of the door to the cell block and look up. Daryl, Carl, and Oscar step into the common room, all armed quite well. They head for the door to the tombs and I stand up in confusion. We've been clearing out everything over the past few days and we've gotten everything that could pose an immediate threat. "Where are you going?" I demand.

"Clear the lower levels," Daryl grunts.

"You've cleared out everything nearby," I say "You can do that later, Glenn and Maggie just left!"

Daryl turns around and gives me a look so venomous I actually take a step back and wonder why I_ ever_ found him attractive. Then the look is gone and he mutters "Sorry." We all stand awkwardly for a moment before it clicks for me.

"You wanna find Carol's body?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't answer, but I know that I'm right.

"Be back before dinner," I say resignedly, trying to lighten the tone "Lil' Ass-Kicker'll be pissed if she wakes up and her favorite uncle isn't here," I turn to Carl "Or her brother."

Carl gives me a tight-lipped smile and then they head through the door and into the darkness.

I sigh and sit back down. Beth watches the door for a few moments until the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall dims. She looks at me and her face turns a bit red "Can I ask about…"

I raise my eyebrows, feeling a bit amused. Beth immediately splutters out an apology and goes back to looking through the food.

"I'm not mad, Beth," I laugh. She looks back at me, her face still cherry red. "It's just… there's nothing to say. It happened once and it's not going to happen again. There's no romance or anything there…" I pause and bite my lip "Honestly, I thought he might've wanted to get together with Carol…"

The red fades from Beth's face and she gives a sad sigh. "I kind of did, too."

"It just… made me feel normal," I go on "But nothing's ever going to happen there. He's too surly and I make too many bad jokes. We'd give up within a month."

Beth laughs at that. "That joke wasn't so bad," she smiles.

I give her a fake blank look "What joke?"

She smiles again and turns back to the rice. "Should be done," she says happily "Just us, Daddy, and Axel, so I guess we can have double portions, unless we wanna save some of it for dinner."

"Have you seen the state of our supplies?" I deadpan "I think we can have double portions."

"Go get 'em, then," Beth replies, reaching for the bowls she laid out.

I nod and stand up, carefully adjusting Lil' Ass-Kicker in my arms again and then heading into the cell block. I find both Axel and Hershel in the older man's cell. Hershel's reading the Bible and Axel's sitting in the chair a bit awkwardly.

"Lunch is ready," I say "All the men are away, so we get extras."

Axel laughs—a bit too loudly—and stands up. He extends a hand to Hershel, who takes it, and helps him up. He helps him get his crutches in order as I back out of the cell, mindful of Hershel's still quite awkward walking.

Once we get back to the common room, Beth's placed all of the bowls out around the table, and there's a small pile of colorful plastic pouches in the center. "We've got lotsa random little sauce packets," Beth nods at the pile. "Figure we can all take our pick. White rice by itself ain't the best meal."

"That's a great idea," Axel says, smiling widely. I raise my eyebrows and try to catch his eye to give him a look, but he's too focused on flamboyantly playing up Beth's cooking.

Good Lord.

I look at Hershel, and I can tell that he notices as well, but he doesn't seem concerned. Maybe he's already given Axel a talking-to. But if he did, he wouldn't be acting like this…

I sit down feeling a bit exasperated. I adjust the baby in my arms so I have half of my right arm free to use the silverware. It's awkward, but I've spent plenty of meals like this.

"You want me to take 'er?" Beth asks.

"I'm fine," I reply "I used to do this with Will and Jamie."

I take a bite and as I'm swallowing, Axel pipes up "Were you a—um…"

I fix Axel with a death glare, and he immediately stops talking. I know he's talking about Will and Jamie, but… _am I a mother_? Do two babies that were never born count?

"No," I reply, lightening up my expression "They were my cousins. But I was with them when everything went to shit."

Hershel eyes me. "Hell," I correct. He raises his eyebrows and looks a bit amused, and I amend again _"When everything went down,"_ annunciating every word carefully and fluttering my eyelashes innocently.

"Sorry I brought 'em up," Axel says, looking pretty sincere.

I shrug "It's alright," I reply, giving him a light smile "I like to think of the good stuff; makes like easier." I cock my head and widen my smile "How do you keep your mustache so fabulous?"

Axel laughs loudly, as do Beth and Hershel. He strokes his impressive handlebar mustache and smiles at me. "Just good luck,"

We finish our lunch fairly quickly after that and then disperse to our own activities. I pass Lil' Ass-Kicker off to Beth, who heads off to her cell to feed her. Hershel heads back to his own cell, and I stay in the common room and play cards with Axel, who laughs a bit too hard at more of my bad jokes.

"Are you trying to flirt with me?" I eventually ask, setting down my cards.

His face turns a bit red and he shuffles in his chair "Well, you know—aren't too many women out there and I was here for a while and—"

"Just stop," I say, holding up a hand. "Babbling doesn't get you anywhere. Neither does the blatant flirting—I know that most of my jokes are bad; stop laughing at them. It's getting creepy."

Axel's lips tighten and he nods. "Sorry."

I shrug. "Don't worry about it. Just don't do it again," I pick my cards back up and nod at him, but he looks behind me and perks up. I turn just in time to see Carl and Oscar opening the door and coming back in.

"Where's Daryl?" I ask hesitantly.

Carl shifts uncomfortably and heads back into the cell block without a word. I look worriedly at Oscar, who gives me a tight-lipped smile "He's fine. We found Carol's knife in one of the Walkers we took down… he's just… taking a moment."

"Oh," I say. I almost want to go talk to Daryl, but I know that'll only lead to shouting or something very awkward. And I would put my money on the former.

So I close my mouth, give Oscar a terse nod, and turn to head back to the cells. I don't feel too much like playing cards anymore. I walk without any direction and find myself in Hershel's cell, where he's relaxing on my bed. I try not to look at the stump of his right leg, but it's kind of hard.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks, setting down the book he was reading and looking at me with concern.

"Fine," I shrug. I sit down in the chair next to his bed and tuck my legs up to my chest. "Just… not the best week."

Hershel nods solemnly and places a hand on my arm. I adjust so that we're holding hands and he gives mine a squeeze. "We'll get through this," he says confidently "There's a plan for all of us. Just keep hope."

"Why we keep you around," I joke lightly.

"Of course."

We sit in silence for a minute or two and finally Hershel speaks up again. "Are you sure there isn't any other reason you came in here?"

"I don't know," I say softly "Just… everything's been pretty chaotic. I feel weird."

"In this case I think that may be normal," Hershel says, giving me a small smile. I smile back and pull my hand away from his.

"I think I'm gonna take a little nap," I say, standing up "I'm still feeling pretty tired."

XXX

"Dawson! Dawson! Wake up!"

"Hm…"

I roll over and open my eyes to see Beth's ecstatic face "C'mon, get up! Now, c'mon!"

_"What?"_ I groan, sitting myself up and biting back the small bit of bile rising in my throat. I was probably only asleep for an hour or so, but I feel about as heavy as a bus.

"Carol's alive!" Beth exclaims. My brain takes a few moments to process what she's saying "C'mon, she's downstairs, come see!"

Carol. Carol is alive. That is—Carol's alive! What?

I jump out of bed, ignore the stars in my eyes, and all but fly down the stairs to the lower level, where several people are grouped around what used to be Carol's cell but—

—no, is Carol's cell! Because she's alive!

I beak through the small ring of people and see Carol sitting up in her bed, looking dirty and tired, but otherwise alright. She's smiling, at least, and talking quietly to Daryl, who's sitting beside her.

"Oh my God!" I say happily, rushing over and hugging her. She hugs me back and I can practically feel the smile on her face. "We thought you were dead!" I whisper pointlessly. We break the hug and I lean back to smile. I almost want to cry over this. Should happy tears be allowed in my set of rules? They don't seem too bad.

"Dawson," someone calls me and I look over my shoulder at—Rick! He's looking pretty clean and he's holding Lil' Ass-Kicker and generally altogether _not_ insane. I sigh in relief and stand up. He motions me to follow him and I do so, giving one last smile to Carol.

"You look a lot better," I say to Rick once he leads me away "I was kind of thinking I was never gonna see you again."

He gives a half-hearted smile and looks at his daughter, wrapped safely in his arms. "I just needed some time," he says "But I need your help with somethin.'"

I nod and he leads me further down the cell block and to the door to the common room, which for some reason appears to be locked. I peer inside and see—a person?

It's a woman; a tall and lean black woman with dreadlocks, sitting on a blanket and leaning back against the wall. She's covered in blood and there doesn't seem to be much color in her face. Despite her injury, she's looking over at us with a fairly mean expression on her face.

"Who is she?" I ask.

"We don't know," Rick replies quietly. The conversation in Carol's cell is keeping his words from the mysterious woman "She showed up at the gates with a basket of formula and a gunshot wound. We brought 'er in, but she isn't talkin.' I thought that maybe you could…"

"What,_ relate_?" I whisper, turning to Rick and raising my eyebrows "You think what happened to me happened to her?" I turn back to the woman and we lock eyes for a moment. In that moment I can see the fire there. "No way. I was _broken_; that is _not_ a woman who was _broken_."

The fact that woman still has fire in her eyes says the world to me. She wasn't tossed around as a toy by a bunch of sickos with no respect for life, but she may have met some. A gunshot is pretty damn telling.

"If you want me to talk to her, I will," I say quietly "But I can guarantee that we don't think alike, and I'm not entirely sure what you want me to ask."

"We'll all go in there in a few minutes," Rick replies "I'll talk to her."

I nod and Rick walks away, leaving me standing at the door of the cell and staring at the mysterious woman. We lock eyes again, and the fire's still there. She's a survivor, this one.

I break the eye contact and step away from the door, then follow Rick back to Carol's cell.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So, I had a reviewer wondering how a 14/15 year old could pass as a college student. I'm not viewing that as a critique, more as a legitimate question. The answer is simple: Age is weird.

Since I was 12, whenever my family went on vacation, I would always be offered drinks. My little sister had to ask for the children's menu when she was still 7 because people thought that she was 12. On the other hand, my older sister (who's 25) has to show her ID anytime she goes anywhere, and my 37-year-old aunt looks like she could be my twin sister. Age is just a weird thing.

That same reviewer also expressed a desire for Dawson and Daryl to become a real couple, and I have come to the conclusion that it is absolutely impossible to make everybody happy. LOL. I will repeat, however, that there will never be any real romance in Dawson's life.

Oh, and totally random unrelated note: I just found out that my aunt is pregnant! I'm getting a little baby boy cousin sometime in July!

Much love to you all. Thanks again for reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing. You guys are awesome!

**End Author's Note.**


	20. The Beginning of The War

**Author's Note:**

So, I was worried that I wouldn't finish this chapter last night due to the fact that I've been spending most of the past two/three days preparing for my debate. (Which is now over, thank God.) But I _did_ get it finished last night, only to discover that Fanfiction wouldn't load up. I don't know if that was just me or the whole site was down, but I couldn't get on. I puttered around until about 11, but it still didn't work, and I went to bed promising myself that I would post this chapter as soon as I woke up.

Then... I woke up. And my heating was out. It as 57 degrees (Farenheit) in my room, and I spent most of the morning shivering and calling anybody I knew that could fix it. I'm still shivering now, but I'm also keeping my promise.

Another promise: I'll post Chapter 21 tonight.

And lastly, I couldn't find a decent transcript of the two episodes involved in this chapter, so if any of the dialogues are inaccurate, let's just write it off to the fact that this is technically an AU.

**End Author's Note.**

* * *

The woman is like a predatory bird; a very dark and scary predatory bird. She just sits there, watching us, waiting. She acts like that gunshot wound doesn't even hurt, or that she isn't exhausted. She's the kind of person that's built for this world.

"We can tend to that wound for you," Rick tells her "Give you a little food and water, and then send you on your way. But you're gonna have to tell us how you found us and why you were carrying formula."

The woman watches Rick for a few moments, then speaks with a low, controlled voice "The supplies were dropped by a young Asian guy," she says.

My first thought is just _Glenn_.

"With a pretty girl."

And my second thought is _Maggie_.

_Glenn and Maggie._

_May as well stock up. What're we waiting for?_

_We should go while we're still sure everythin' ain't goin' to hell._

Glenn and Maggie. No, no, no—Glenn and Maggie cannot be dead. They cannot be gone less than a week after losing Lori and T-Dog! It just—they _can't_ be! We went months and months without losing anyone and now—

"They were taken," the woman replies to a question I didn't hear.

_Taken._

Taken is bad, but taken isn't dead.

"Taken? By who?"

"By the same son of a bitch who shot me," the woman says, letting a bit of emotion show. And that emotion is clearly anger.

But Rick is even angrier.

He leans forward "Hey, these are our people. You tell us what happened now!"

I don't see him reach out for her, but the next thing I know the woman yells "Don't you ever touch me again!"

"You'd better start talking," Rick growls "Or you're gonna have a much bigger problem than a gunshot wound."

"Find 'em yourself," the woman snaps.

"You came here for a reason!" Rick counters.

The woman is clearly unhappy, and she takes a few more moments to size us all up. I suppose she decides that she's better off helping us than going off on her own, because she starts talking. "There's a town; Woodbury… about seventy-five survivors. I think they were taken there."

"A whole town?"

"It's run by this guy who calls himself the Governor; pretty boy, charming, Jim Jones type." Again, I can see the disdain and anger for this man written all over the woman's face. This 'Governor' is clearly bad news.

"He got muscle?" Daryl asks.

"Paramilitary wannabees," she replies "They have armed sentries on every wall."

"You know a way in?" Rick asks.

"The place is secure from Walkers," the woman answers "But we could slip our way through."

"How'd you know how to get here?"

"They mentioned a prison," she shrugs "Said which direction it was in, said it was a straight shot."

A few moments pass, and then Rick stands up and gestures to Hershel "This is Hershel, the father of the girl who was taken," he says "He'll take care of that." Rick points to the gunshot wound and walks away, motioning the rest of us to join him.

We follow Rick back into the cell block, and immediately the conversation begins. It's all "How do we know we can trust her?" and "This is Glenn and Maggie!" and it really doesn't take all that long to decide that we're going to rescue them.

Well, not 'we' of course. I can't go. It's going to be Rick, Daryl, Oscar, and the mysterious woman. Rick, Daryl, and Oscar are going off to rescue Maggie and Glenn.

We could lose five people.

I really don't want to lose five people after having just lost two.

Preparing the cars doesn't take very long, and it seems like half the group is gone in a blink of an eye. Off to risk their lives for what's probably the millionth time.

Now there's just me, Carol, Beth, Hershel, Axel, and the baby. As we head back inside after watching the car drive off, Carl informs me that the baby's been named Judith.

The next few hours are spent worrying and cooing over Judith. We play a few games of cards and I read a bit of a book. At one point Carol pulls Axel away to have a discussion that I assume pertains to his calling Beth's seventeen years "Interesting." He returns looking happy, and Carol slightly amused.

I decide that Axel's probably alright.

I eventually pull Carl away to play a round of cards privately. I pretend I want to play War, but I really just want to talk to him. We haven't gotten a chance to talk since…

Since Lori died.

We separate the cards and start setting them down. I wait until we're a bit into it until I ask "So… how are you?"

"Fine."

I place another card. Carl does as well. My card is better.

"Seriously."

"Seriously _what_?" he snaps "I'm_ fine_!"

"Carl—"

"Are_ you_ fine?" he asks snidely "'Cause last time I checked, you passed out in a pool of your own blood."

"That's different, Carl," I reply "I just want to make sure that you're alright."

"I told you I'm fine," he mutters "You wanna tell me why you passed out?"

"I had a concussion, Carl—"

"No, you didn't. I'm not stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid—"

"You're acting like it—"

"Stop it!" I exclaim "I'm trying to talk to you and you're acting like a spoiled brat!"

"Maybe I don't want to talk to you!"

Before I can throw something else back, someone screams. We both bolt up, our argument forgotten, and realize that the scream didn't come from the cell block; it came from the tombs.

Carl touches the gun on his belt and then starts for the door leading to the tombs.

"Carl!" I exclaim.

"What?"

"You can't just—"

_"My dad would go."_

He doesn't look like a thirteen-year-old right now. He looks like a grown-up. There's an intensity in his eyes that I've never seen on a child before. There's no way I'm going to convince him not to go in there.

I remember what I told him weeks ago, after Hershel's leg got cut off.

* * *

_"Hershel needed the supplies," Carl explains "I had to get them! They were all just sitting around, but I did something—"_

_"Carl, I'm not mad at you," I interrupt "I think you did the right thing, but you have to understand how your mother is feeling." I pause to let him say something, and when he doesn't I go on "She's worried about your dad, she's worried about the baby, and she's already worried about you. The thought of you running off into a dark, Walker-infested series of hallways scares her to death." I pause again, and when Carl still doesn't reply, I add "You could've asked me to go with you."_

_"What?" he asks, finally turning to look at me._

_"I would've gone with you if you'd asked." I repeat "Lori wouldn't have been so mad if someone had been with you."_

_Carl looks at me for a bit, and then says "Okay."_

_"Okay?" I grin at him._

_"Okay," he nods._

* * *

I check my belt, even though I know I have my knife and my gun. "Fine, let's go, but I'm coming with you."

Carl doesn't say anything, just turns to the door and wrenches it open, leaving it that way so I can get through. I close it behind me and after a few moments we're in the dark, the light of Carl's flashlight the only thing letting us see. We follow the screams and suddenly we're in a large room, observing five people fighting off Walkers. I pull out my knife and stab one of them as Carl shoots one that gets too close to one of the people.

"Come on!" I hear him yell.

I back out of the room, make sure the people are following us, and then we start making our way quickly down the hall. I glance behind me and see the people, but one of the women is badly injured and hanging off the others. "You have to leave her!" Carl yells.

"No way!" shouts the man who's supporting her.

"Then hurry it up!" I yell, turning back and keeping my pace down the twisting corridors. It's tough to remember the way, but I manage, and then we're back in the common room. We get through and Carl shuts the door behind the people, who are all out of breath but clearly relieved that there was anybody to save them.

"How'd they get in?" Carl asks me.

"Part of the prison's probably damaged," I reply a bit breathlessly.

Carl nods seriously, steps forward, and points his gun at the new people. "Whoa!" I shout, grabbing his arm gently.

"She's_ dead_, she's gonna _turn_," he says, looking at me like I'm an idiot.

I look at the group. The injured woman… well, she isn't dead. _Yet._ But she's getting there. She's laying in the arms of the man who I assume is her husband, and she looks like she might go out at any moment.

"Carl…" I whisper hesitantly.

"Who the hell are you?" a black woman demands "How did you get in here, who are you _with_?"

"Look, we can help you," says Carl calmly "But first thing's first—"

"Carl!" I yell. I tighten my grip on the boy's arm, but he just grimaces and keeps his gun trained on the woman… she looks like she might be dead now.

"No," says another man "We take care of our own."

He's eyeing us carefully, and I see what he has in his hand… a hammer. "C'mon Carl," I whisper "These people have lived in this world just as long as we have. They can do this themselves."

Carl shifts his weight and tucks his gun back into his belt. I release his arm and let out a relieved sigh.

The man with the hammer approaches the dead woman and the black woman says "No, Tyreese—"

"I gotta do it!" he says.

Carl grabs my hand and wrenches me away from the new people. I stumble a bit but follow him back into the cell block, where he immediately closes and locks the riot gate. "Hey!" shouts the black woman "What are you doing? Kid, d'you jus' lock us in here?" She approaches the door and rattles the bars. "Open this door," she says sternly.

"This room is secure," says Carl calmly "You'll be safe. You have food and water."

The woman shifts her weight and gives Carl a deadly look. _"Open this door."_

"I can't."

"C'mon man, we're not animals! Don' do this!" Carl grabs my hand again and starts to walk me away from the door.

"You can't just leave us here!" the woman shouts "Open this door! Open it! _Now!_"

"Sasha!"

Carl stops walking and turns back. The other man—Tyreese—is laying a gentle hand on the woman's shoulder. I can't really tell, but I think they're either married or siblings. "Look around you," Tyreese says "This is the best we've had in weeks. _His house_," he glances at Carl, who's face remains stony. He looks back to Sasha "We got other things to do." He glances back to Carl again "We don't want any trouble," he says.

Carl nods.

"Shouldn't we help them?" asks a soft voice. I turn and see that Beth has walked up beside us.

"I did." Carl mutters. With that, he turns and stalks off to his cell. I look at Beth and sigh heavily.

"When it rains, it pours," I mutter.

"Know what ya mean."

I watch Tyreese and Sasha return to the dead woman and the two people crying over her. It's a man and a boy… I'm guessing her husband and son. The boy doesn't look like he's too much older than me.

I feel a sudden bout of nausea and have to lean against the prison wall and close my eyes. I feel Beth's hand on my shoulder. "You alright?"

"Fine," I lie "Just… haven't smelled Walkers in a while."

I open my eyes. Beth is giving me a 'yeah right' look. Yeah right as in_ 'No, it's definitely not from your failed pregnancy or anything.'_

"It'll pass," I whisper resignedly. She sighs sadly and grabs my arm to help me get my balance back.

"You should sleep," she says "It's gettin' late anyway, and Daddy wanted ya on bedrest."

"A week ago."

"Five days ago," Beth corrects "You're supposed ta be restin' for a week."

"Fine," I shrug her hands off and climb the stairs. I don't hear her follow me.

I get up to my bed and collapse into it, wondering what kind of insanity tomorrow could possibly bring…

* * *

I thought I'd feel better in the morning, but clearly not. All of those leftover hormones of mine are extremely unhappy at smelling Walkers, which I haven't done since before the miscarriage. I almost throw up in the yard as I head to the watchtower, but I shake it off and I'm better soon enough.

I spend pretty much my entire morning in the watchtower, alternating between reading a book and watching the road. I want the group to come back so badly it almost feels like a physical need. Maybe it has to do with the nature of what they're doing; a rescue mission. This isn't a run or being separated by a herd—our adversaries here are_ people._ People are smarter and more unpredictable than Walkers.

When I was younger, Dad always told me never to trust anyone. I always thought he was a paranoid old Marine, but I get his point now. All of the scumbags running amok in the world now used to be a part of normal society, and that's a bit unsettling.

I watch the new group leave the prison with a body in a sheet. I learned a bit more about them this morning—Tyreese and Sasha are brother and sister. The dead woman's name was Donna. Allen's her husband and Ben's her son.

I watch them struggle for a minute and drop the body bag. Allen talks for a minute, and Tyreese and Sasha seem to be unimpressed. Beth and Axel walk out with shovels for them. They thank them and go on with their business. I watch them carry the body of Donna into the yard, dig the grave, and drop her in. Allen and Ben cry as they bury her.

I sigh heavily and lean back into my chair. I watch the road again, but nothing moves except for a few Walkers ambling between the trees.

I feel nauseous again for a brief second and I put my hand over my belly. For half a strange second, I almost wish that I didn't lose the baby.

_But no._ I shake my head. _That's silly._ It's better this way. The nausea and the cramps and the headaches and the bleeding will last another day or two and then this baby will be completely gone from my life. No need to think about it again. I was doing perfectly fine not thinking of the last one.

_But this one was different_, my brain whispers, _Its father was Daryl, not some random asshole who decided he liked how you looked with stab wounds…_

I shake my head again. Stop lingering. This baby is as dead and gone as the last one.

I glance at the small group in the yard, mourning over their fifth member.

I glance at the road, which will hopefully bring my own group back.

Yeah. I don't have time to worry about things that are dead and gone. I have plenty of living people to worry about.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Again, I promise I'll post Chapter 21 tonight. Hopefully my heating will be fixed by then.

Thank you for reading! Please favorite, follow, and review!

**End Author's Note.**


	21. The Beginning of The Scar

I watch Carol and Carl talking down by the gate. Their conversation seems to be going well, so maybe Carol's getting through to the boy better than I did. When did I lose my skill at talking to kids?

I lean back in my chair with a heavy sigh. Carl's the only kid I've been around for a year, which probably has something to do with it. And to be honest, he's about as much of a child as I am. I can't remember the last time I felt like a child.

Just as I'm about to give up my watch and go inside to see if Axel or Beth wants to take it, I catch movement on the road. A glint of sunlight where there shouldn't be, a bit of dust, and then the car! Our car! Oh, thank God!

I linger for a few more moments, just to make sure they aren't being chased by a herd or the people who took Maggie and Glenn, but it appears that they're alone. Carol and Carl pull open the gate for them and the drive in. I jump away from my post and fly down the narrow staircase, out the door and back into the yard. They're getting out of the car; there's Glenn and Maggie. Rick, the woman…

And that's it.

Where are Daryl and Oscar?

I slow down before I reach them, because I know that there are two people missing, and despite all of the terrible thoughts and possibilities that run through my head, I'm in no hurry to hear what happened to them, because it could be_ so _much worse than anything in my head…

I approach them slowly, and Carol's crying. Rick has his arm around her and she's crying… oh God… Daryl's dead. If Carol's crying then Daryl has to be dead.

Rick catches my eye. He smiles at me and shakes his head. What—no? A happy no? Daryl's _not_ dead? If he's not dead then why's Carol crying?

"He just _left_?" Carol croaks, looking back at Rick.

Left.

Not dead. He _left_.

There's a stab of anger inside me. I don't usually get mad at the people in my group, but… he _left_? What the hell is_ that_ about? Why would he_ leave _us? We need him. We'd be dead without him. And then I realize that I'm not just angry because he left the group, I'm angry because he left _me_. I'm angry because what if I _hadn't_ miscarried and I ended up pregnant while he was off running around doing _whatever the hell_ it is that he ran off for?

He left.

"Why?" I ask loudly. I can feel my Southern accent kicking in, the way that my mouth made more of an 'a' sound than a 'y.' I can feel my lips tightening and my eyebrows knitting together and my eyes bulging wide. I am _pissed_.

Rick sighs heavily. "Look, we ran into his brother and—"

"An' so he ran off with his brother?" I yell. I don't know all that much about Daryl's brother, just that his name is Merle and some random little tidbits from stories Daryl's told over the past few months. "What, 'is brother couldn' come 'ere!"

"His brother was working with the group that took Maggie and Glenn," Rick says calmly.

"Working with them!" shouts Glenn from nowhere "He_ took_ us!"

"So what!" I yell "We coulda locked 'im up! We're in a fuckin' _prison_! Daryl's the only reason we ain't starved ta death—ya jus' let 'im _leave_!"

"Dawson…" Rick reaches out as if to comfort me like he's doing for Carol, but I jump back.

"Where's Oscar?" I snap. Rick sighs heavily again and runs his free hand over his face, and that's all the answer I need. "Fantastic," I hiss. I turn on my heel and stalk back up to the prison, open the door to the common room and stomp in. Tyreese, Sasha, Allen, and Ben look at me expectantly and I just say "They're back," before continuing on into the cell block.

Beth peeps her head out of one of the cells, Judith making soft noises in her arms.

"Oscar's dead and Daryl left." I inform her dully, making my way up the staircase, down the balcony, and into my cell. I throw myself on my bed with a frustrated grunt. I really need to _not _be so angry, because that other group may come to attack us for all I know, and we need to be prepared. At least I'm not feeling the urge to kill my feelings.

I feel nauseous again.

Something moves in front of my cell and I see Axel, pale and stricken. Guilt stabs my stomach—he's known Oscar for much longer than I've known this group, and I had no right to throw his death around like that. I sit up and whisper "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head and leans against the doorframe. "Just… wanted to know if you were serious," he says sadly.

I don't reply.

"D'you… uh—know what happened?"

I shake my head. "You should—um—ask Rick or something. I just found out and kind of… stormed off."

Axel nods somberly and says "I'm sorry about your friend."

"He didn't die," I mutter "He _left_."

"Still sorry."

I sigh. "And I'm sorry about Oscar."

Axel nods and backs out of my cell. I lay back down when he's out of sight, irritated with the slew of feelings rattling around in my brain. Anger and sadness and guilt and worry and everything… I just _hate_ it.

I aim a kick at the bottom of the top bunk. One of the books falls over. A few seconds pass and then there's a bigger thump as the entire row topples. I sigh resignedly because I know I'll be compelled to reorganize those later, even though it's entirely unnecessary.

The sound of the doors opening echoes through the cell block and I hear footsteps thumping across the concrete. There's no conversation, so I guess Rick's not too eager to talk to the new group. A door closes. Judith starts crying. I just stare at the bottom of the bunk above me.

I finally identify what it is that's making me feel so frustrated. I feel _alone_. T-Dog's dead, Carl's not the same anymore, Beth's focusing on Judith, and Daryl leaving was just the cherry on top of the cake.

_I feel alone._

* * *

I've always prided myself on my intelligence. Maybe not my wisdom, but I at least knew I had more than most kids my age. My intelligence, though… that made me egotistical and vain and was one of the reasons why I looked so disdainfully upon my peers; I didn't consider them my peers. I always thought of my schoolmates as children who didn't understand. They didn't understand what the future held or why they should pay attention in school or why y=mx+b. I was so pretentious and so conceited that I didn't even care that I didn't have many friends or some of the other kids bullied me. I had my eyes set upon my future and the wonderful things it would bring. I had my eyes set upon how intelligent I was compared to all of the other idiots around me.

I don't feel too smart anymore.

My knowledge of math and literature and the crisis in the Middle East (which at this point is probably nonexistent) is hardly important anymore. My knowledge isn't going to help me defend the prison against the sizable force that's moving our way and my knowledge isn't going to help Rick stop being crazy.

I was always so focused on the fact that one day I'd be the important one. But now I'm not. I'm one of the liabilities. I'm not a warrior.

That's what I'm thinking when Glenn looks at me and says "Are you okay with firing one of the rifles?"

Not 'You're firing one of the rifles.' 'Are you _okay _with firing one of the rifles?'

"Yeah," I answer immediately.

But it hurts.

Glenn doesn't know how that little question hurt me, and I can't explain it to him without sounding like an idiot.

I steel myself against all of the resentment that's been building up inside of me over the past couple of days and simply do as I'm told. I told myself to stop lingering, but just when I'm certain I've gotten a grip on my emotions, the rug is pulled out from under me. It's like a morbid game of tag, and I can't get it to stop.

I look at the mysterious woman. I know that her name is Michonne, now, but that's it. Michonne is a warrior who's completely shut herself away from emotions. She put a steel cage on her heart to keep the mistakes away, and yet she still seems to care about people in general. I want to be like that. I want to be strong without turning into a psychopath. I want to care about people without letting the emotions getting in the way. But I think it takes a special kind of person to be like that.

As per Glenn's instructions, I go outside and start fortifying the fences, which is something we've all taken turns doing throughout the morning. Off by the outer fences, Rick is just standing and staring at something that doesn't seem to be there.

I shake my head, because Rick's completely lost his.

I knew that he was struggling with Lori's death, but I didn't expect the absolute mental freak show that occurred last night.

* * *

_Hershel's whispering to Rick, telling him that it's okay, that we can let these people in. Rick is wrong on this. They can be part of our group._

_"No…" Rick says._

_I don't think about it because he's been saying 'no' a lot the past couple of minutes. He doesn't want to be responsible if these people die. _"If you turn us out, you are responsible,"_ Tyreese had replied, and I'm inclined to agree._

_I want to speak up, to say something to keep these people here, but I don't know what. I'm about to open my mouth to blurt out something (because that's always been_ so_ good at helping me in the past) when Rick starts saying it again._

_"No… no, no, no, no, no, no, no… no… Why are you here?" He turns, looking around the room for something that isn't here "What do you want from me?"_

_"Dad…" Carl says hesitantly._

_"Why are you—I can't help you," he stops and then screams _"Get out!"_ He pulls his gun and everybody in the room takes a step back. Tyreese holds out his hands._

_"Hey, come on, whoa, it's all good—"_

_"You don't belong here!" Rick yells "Get out! Please!"_

_He seems half-deranged, half-mad, his eyes are unfocused and his voice doesn't have the same authoritative and trustworthy tone to it. He just sounds insane._

_"Relax, brother," Tyreese is still saying softly "Relax—"_

_"Get out!"_

_"Okay, we'll leave, we're going," Tyreese soothes. He steps towards the door, followed by the other three. His hand is still up and he seems to be trying to position himself in front of his group. "Okay? Ain't nobody got to get shot here. We're going."_

_"What are you doing here!" Rick screeches again._

_"Okay, we're going."_

_"Just go! Go! Go!"_

_And they do._

* * *

I drag another board across the yard and prop it against the fence. I get another view of Rick, who's now drawn the attention of several Walkers, who are snarling against the fence. I don't think he's even moved from the spot he was standing in twenty minutes ago.

"Hey, Dawson!"

I turn and smile at Glenn, but he doesn't return the sentiment. I try not to notice his face, which was heavily bruised by Merle, apparently. But it's hard.

Glenn motions to the board I've moved to the fence and says "I'll give you a hand."

I nod and we move on to get another board. For several minutes it's mostly busy work. I ask Glenn how it went clearing the tombs with Carl. He tells me that the boiler room is overrun again and we're still not entirely sure where the breach is. We keep working.

"Can I ask you to do something for me?" he finally says.

"Depends what it is," I reply breathlessly.

We both lift a particularly heavy piece of cement up and waddle over to where we're placing it. When we set it down, Glenn says "I want you to talk to Maggie."

I raise my eyebrows. "Oh?"

Glenn's face turns just slightly red and he bites his lip. "When we were captured… some _things_ happened to her… and she won't talk to me…"

"Oh." I whisper. This is like what Rick wanted me to do with Michonne when we didn't know who she was. Except nothing like that actually happened to Michonne. Maggie, on the other hand… well…

"Do you know exactly what happened to her?" I ask "Because unlike me, she wasn't cut up like a frog in a Biology classroom."

Glenn runs a hand over his face. "She wasn't raped," he says softly, his face anguished. "But… things happened. And I just want her to feel better, but—"

"I'll try to talk to her," I say, giving Glenn a smile that I hope is reassuring. "But I can't promise anything."

Glenn nods and gives a heavy sigh.

"Does Hershel still want to move on?" I ask.

"Yeah," he replies.

That's the big debate right now. Should we try to ride out the attack from 'Woodbury?' Or are we going to run away?

"For the record," I say quietly "I think we should go."

"We have—"

"I know," I interrupt "We have walls and food and a place where we can build a life, and that's fantastic. It really is. But there are upwards of fifty people coming to take us on, and we've lost more people since we've been here than we ever did when we were on the road."

"And what about Judith?" Glenn counters "What do we do when we're hiding from a herd and she starts crying?"

"I don't want to argue, Glenn," I sigh "I'm just telling you what I think. And… I know that you're stressed and all, being the leader all of a sudden."

"You're right, I am," he mutters. "But we're going to stay here, and we're going to drive them out, and then we're all going to be just fine."

"'Cause optimism's worked so well thus far," I deadpan.

He runs a hand over his face again, lets out another heavy sigh. Then turns and leaves without a word.

"Good job, Dawson," I mutter to myself, turning to look back out into the prison yard. Rick's making his way outside the fences now. I feel like maybe I should stop him, but even in his half-crazed state I'm fairly confident he can take care of himself. The few Walkers lined up on the fence won't be a problem. I _should _tell someone what he's doing though.

But tell who? Glenn?

I aim a small kick at the big piece of concrete that we dragged over. And succeed in stubbing my toe.

Cursing under my breath, I half-hop back into the prison.

* * *

I start to approach Maggie at least five times over the rest of the day. I rethink it every time, changing course and pretending that I was going to check on Lil' Ass-Kicker or get a deck of cards or something equally as mundane that is definitely _not _going to check on Maggie.

Finally, though, I work up the courage to approach her cell. She's laying on the bed inside, playing with the safety on her gun, a rather lost expression on her face.

"Hey," I say quietly.

She looks up and gives me a tight-lipped smile. "Hey." Then she goes back to messing with the gun.

"Um… do you uh… d'you wanna talk?" I ask weakly.

"Not really."

She doesn't even look at me.

"I just…" I stutter "Just… I figured that I would probably be able to talk to you better than anyone else… you know—about what happened—"

"Glenn told you to talk to me," Maggie interrupts. "Don't pretend."

"Okay, so he did," I sigh "He just… he wants you to be happy."

"_You_ didn't wanna talk about it," she snaps "You seem fine to me."

I snort. "Yeah, really? I'm a few different types of mentally screwed."

Maggie snorts and finally looks up, giving me one of her toothy grins. Her eyes don't light up like they usually do when she grins like that, but it's something. And something is better than nothing.

"At least I can tell him that I got you to laugh," I chuckle.

"Yeah," she says. She tones down the smile but her lips are still curled up at the ends.

"So, if you're hungry, I can—"

_BOOM!_

Maggie and I freeze for about half a second before we're both in action, out of her cell, running to the armory cell, grabbing all of the loaded automatic rifles that we've prepared. More gunshots are sounding in rapid succession as we run to the door that leads to the yard. We pause and wait for a few seconds for the gunfire to stop, and when it does we wrench the door open and bolt out. Maggie screams _"BETH!"_ as we run.

I only get a few moments to assess our situation before we duck behind a barrier with Beth and Carl and the gunfire breaks out again. Beth and Carl take their own guns and starts shooting.

I peek over the edge and get another look. Several cars are lined up outside our gates, and lots of people are shooting. I get my gun and line up a shot with one of the closer men… come on… come on… I can do this… deep breaths… pull the trigger—

There's a loud bang and I smirk at the sight of the man I was aiming for falling to the ground. I don't know if I've killed him or not, but he's out of commission.

I duck back down and try to calm the trembling in my arms when—

_—holy shit my face is on fire where did that come from oh my God how the hell why how did something hit me I was behind something they couldn't have gotten me behind here how the hell o wow ow fuck this hurts how did they hit me did they blow my head off no they couldn't blow my head off because I'm still thinking but holy shit my head feels like it's exploding—_

Everything. Just. Burns.

My face burns, burns, burns.

Someone's screaming for me.

My face is exploding.

Something pressing on my face that stings, stings, stings—

Piercing. Stinging. Burning. Throbbing. Painful. Yelling.

Everything hurts, and people are talking.

I don't know how much time has passed, but eventually it occurs to me that I was shot in the face.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

*Laughs maniacally* Bet you didn't see that coming. Sorry about that little cliffhanger there.

Anyway, as promised, this was Chapter 21. The way things are looking, the last chapter of this story will be up tomorrow. I'm about 90% sure of this fact. After that, I'll give you an update on my plans for the new story.

Fun fact: My heat is still out. Turns out I should've been yelling at my gas company, not my electric company. I'm reminded of a shirt my friend Anna used to wear in High School "Don't grow up! It's a trap!" Seriously, if you're a kid reading my story, don't grow up. It's a trap.

So anyway, potentially last chapter tomorrow. It's been great having you guys along for this journey with me.

Thank you for your time. Please favorite, follow, and review. :)

**End Author's Note.**


	22. The End of The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

Oh, my deary deary darlings! We've reached the last chapter! This story is officially complete! I want to thank you all for reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing! More details about what's to come in the bottom Author's Note.

**End Author's Note.**

* * *

When I was about six years old, I accidentally disturbed a wasp nest. Before I could even register what was happening, I got swarmed by them. They stung my head, my arms, my chest, my legs, but my hands got it the worst because I was swatting at them.

I don't remember very much about that incident, partially because I was six, but mostly because it was the first time in my life I had passed out.

I remember getting stung over and over, I remember flailing my arms around, and I remember someone throwing a bucket of water at me, but after those things it's nothing but a blur. When I woke up, I was in the hospital and a pretty blonde nurse was smiling at me. I couldn't open my eyes all the way due to the stings.

The first time I passed out was the only time I had ever passed out in my life. That is, before the dead started walking and pointing a gun at someone was customary greeting. But I tend to think of those as separate lives.

The way I woke up in the hospital after being stung by wasps was quite similar to how I'm waking up.

I try to open my eyes, but I can't do it all the way because the right side of my face seems to be swollen. Also, the right side of my face hurts like hell. Especially near my ear, which is still ringing from some forgotten sound. And there's a pretty blonde person smiling at me.

"Hey," I croak.

Beth lets out an audible sigh of relief. "Hey."

"Did I get shot?" I ask. The question makes my ear ring and my cheek hurt, but I ignore it.

"Yeah," Beth replies "It didn' get ya that bad, but Daddy says it prob'ly went near your ear drum—that's why it hurt so much. It really only skimmed your cheek, but Daddy's worried it mighta fractured one o' the bones in your face."

"Oh, good," I mumble with a small groan. I resist the urge to rub my face since I know that'll just make it hurt even more than it already is.

"He also said that if you could talk, it probably meant that none o' the bones were broken," Beth adds.

I sigh in relief. I can't say that I know a lot about biology, but a facial fracture can lead to a lot of bad things that we're not able to treat. After a few moments I ask "What happened—with the attack and all?"

Beth sighs. "We got a few of 'em…" she says "But they drove this truck full o' Walkers inta the yard an' let 'em loose. Then the left. And…" she sighs again and looks away. I want to say _'And what?'_ but talking just makes my ears ring too much when I speak. Hell, my ears ring when Beth speaks. I don't hear her properly.

What if I go deaf in my right ear? Oh God…

After a few moments, Beth looks back and finishes her previous statement "And… Axel's dead."

Axel's dead. I had just started to like Axel, and now he's dead.

What's scary is how easily that could've been me. That bullet just skimmed my cheek, but if it was a few inches up and to the left, it would've gone right through my brain. I wouldn't have even come back as a Walker. That would've been _dead_ dead. End of the line for me.

How did I even get _hit_? Wasn't I hiding behind something?

I close my eyes again. "Is anybody else hurt?" I ask.

"No."

The _no_ lingers, like there's another thing that she's not telling me, which is entirely possible. Any assortment of insane things could have happened that they don't want to stress me out with.

"What is it?" I ask.

Beth sighs again. "Daryl's back."

My heart leaps and I almost smile, then I remember how badly my face is messed up and attempt not to. Then I remember how mad I was at him and it's not hard at all to keep my face straight.

"He's got 'is brother with 'im," Beth informs me "So… things ain't exactly peaceful."

I shrug. It shouldn't be a surprise that Merle would be here if Daryl came back. Merle is the entire reason Daryl left in the first place; he wouldn't come back without him.

Even though I'm mad, at least he's back. We need Daryl. We would've starved over the winter and possibly been killed by Walkers without him. He's the kind of person that was designed to survive in this world.

"Ya still pissed at 'im?" Beth guesses.

I make a small affirmative sound in my throat.

"I am too," she mutters. I nudge her with my foot and she smiles. "Is your vision blurry at all?" she asks seriously "Seein' stars or anythin'?"

"Nope," I whisper "But my ear hurts like all hell."

"That'll probably last a while," she replies "Ya want any water or food or somethin'?"

"Not hungry, but water'd be good."

Beth stands up and leaves the cell. I close my eyes and groan quietly. What I wouldn't give for some of that numbing agent they use for cavities at the dentist's office. My cheek fucking _hurts_! I never got my wisdom teeth out, but this is probably what it would feel like after the medication wore off. What's the recovery time on something like this? And when will my ear _stop! Freaking! Ringing!_

Beth returns soon enough with a bottle of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. She sits down next to me and I sit up, feeling a bit dizzy. She hands me the water and I sip it while she unwarps the cloth and exposes a few pills. "Painkillers," she says. I snatch them eagerly and down them with one gulp of water, praying that they'll go into effect quickly. Beth holds up the cloth again and explains "It's warm. Puttin' it over your ear can help with it."

I nod and take a few more sips of the water before putting the cap back on and lying down. Beth lays the warm cloth over my ear and I close my eyes. "Daddy also said that we might have'ta give ya some antibiotics, 'cause ya might get an infection, but we'll cross that bridge if we get there."

I nod again and settle into the covers, trying to ignore the pain. I'm not successful, but at some point the painkillers settle it to a less pronounced throbbing and I manage to fall asleep.

* * *

When I wake up again it's night. Nobody's watching me, so I guess I'm not at risk of dying from my ruptured eardrum.

I push the pain away and drag myself out of bed, set for the bathroom. It takes me some time to get out of bed due to the dizziness, but I manage. I head to the bathroom, spend a few minutes in there, and then check myself in the mirror.

I'm not a vain person, but I can't say that I'm thrilled about the prospect of another scar to add to my collection, this one clearly visible on my cheek. I can't see it now, because most of the right side of my face is covered by a big bandage, but I know what's lying under that white cloth. I know that the most painful part of this—the ruptured eardrum—isn't going to cause a blemish, but the graze on my cheek is going to be a big, ugly reminder.

I set the mirror down and run a hand through my hair, let out an exasperated sigh. As if anybody cares what my face looks like. I certainly shouldn't—inner beauty and all that.

I hear footsteps echo and someone calls quietly "Dawson? You in there?"

"Yeah," I call back.

"Are your clothes on?" the voice asks. I recognize it now—Carl. If I couldn't recognize his voice the first time, my hearing has clearly been affected to some degree.

"Yeah," I repeat.

A few moments pass and then Carl emerges in the doorway. I can only see half his face in the moonlight, the rest of his face is in shadow. Given all of his recent angry outbursts, it looks pretty unsettling.

"I came back in from watch," Carl explains "You weren't in your bed."

"Just here," I reply. "You alright?"

"Fine," he replies "How's your ear?"

"Hurts like the devil's throwing a swing party in there," I reply "But earlier it felt more like a rave, so I guess that's an improvement."

Carl doesn't even smile. "Good. You need to get better."

I sigh. "When d'you think they're coming back?"

He shrugs. "No way to know. But Dad wants to go on a run for more guns."

"Thought your dad hopped off the crazy train," I deadpan.

"He got it back together when the Governor attacked."

I nod and sit down on one of the benches. "You shouldn't have to deal with shit like this," I sigh "You should be worrying about whether or not the girl you like will go to the junior dance with you or whether or not you aced your math test."

"That stuff was always stupid," Carl shrugs "Even before now."

"I always thought so, too," I mumble.

A few minutes pass in silence. I want to leave, but Carl's just_ standing_ there. I don't know what to do. He's starting to get kind of creepy.

"Andrea's alive," he says suddenly.

Those two words take a few moments to process. Andrea. Andrea—Andrea from the farm, Andrea. That's the only Andrea I know. Andrea who got lost when the farm was overrun. Who we all assumed was dead. Andrea.

Blonde hair, used to be a lawyer, always tried to make me talk when I was in my depression. Andrea.

"Is she here?" I ask, looking up.

"She's in Woodbury," Carl mutters darkly "Merle knew, 'cause he was there too. She was best friends with Michonne or something, they spent all winter together, and then they found the town. Michonne thought it was suspicious, but Andrea got sucked straight in."

"So what, then?" I ask "We're just two scared groups fighting against each other?"

"Not the way Merle talks about them."

"I thought we didn't trust Merle."

"He's a jackass," Carl mutters. It's almost strange hearing him curse "But he loves Daryl. He wouldn't lie to us about something like that."

"Like what?"

"That Governor guy," he replies "He's crazy. Michonne said he kept heads in tanks, Merle backed her up. He kills people that he thinks are threats, even if they don't want to fight. He tried to pit Merle and Daryl against each other in an arena. He's just a maniac. We need to kill him."

_We need to kill him._ That was the point of that whole speech; that we need to kill him. And Carl wants to do it.

"I still think we should leave," I whisper.

Carl shakes his head. "I'm not taking my sister back out on the road."

_My sister._ That's another strange thing. I've never heard Carl refer to Judith as his sister like that; kind of possessively, but not a bad kind of possessive. The kind of possessive I felt over my cousins when I was suddenly their only guardian.

"Okay."

Another minute or so passes and Carl disappears from the doorway without a word of goodbye. Definitely creepy. When this… _war _is over with, we need to revisit the conversation I had with him at the beginning of the winter. The conversation about not going cold, that he's clearly not remembering. Of course, he just watched his mother die a week ago, and that's bound to mess up any kid.

It certainly messed me up for a while.

* * *

Hershel's trying to be gentle as he checks my ear and my cheek, but it hurts every time his fingers come into contact with my skin. "Your ear canal is bleeding slightly," he informs me "But that's normal. There's no pus, which is a good sign that there's no infection. And the wound on your cheek doesn't appear to be infected either, though it'll definitely scar."

"I figured," I reply, and immediately wish I hadn't. When I move my jaw, it lightly bumps into Hershel's hand, and a short jab of pain shoots up into my skull. At least my ear isn't _ringing_ anymore.

"I'd give it a few days to heal," he says, leaning away from me "Another week or so for complete recovery and to gain back full use of your ear. And I don't want you to exert yourself."

I snort. "I feel like I haven't been allowed to exert myself since we got here."

"You have made a habit of injurin' yourself," Hershel chuckles "But I think I have you beat."

"Definitely."

Somewhere else in the cell block Judith starts crying, and someone starts singing. She calms down after a few moments and after a minute or so the singing stops.

"Judy okay?" I ask.

"After the attack, we found her in her bed sound asleep," Hershel smiles. "And she was certainly happy to see Daryl again."

"Of course she was," I reply with an eye-roll.

"You should forgive him," Hershel says in his most fatherly tone "There aren't very many of us, and anger is unproductive."

"I'm a young woman," I quip "If I don't hold a grudge, what am I gonna do with my time?"

"Rest."

I snort, but lean back into my bed and close my eyes. "Fine. See me? Resting. Wake me if anybody starts shooting at us."

"I'll do that," Hershel replies. I hear him as he struggles to stand up and limps out of my cell. For a while I just sit in my bed and listen to the sounds of the people in the prison, and somehow I manage to fall asleep again.

* * *

Someone's nudging my shoulder. "Dawson,"

"Hm…" I groan. Open my eyes—a blonde woman—Andrea!

I jerk up and wince as the room spins, but the dizziness passes quickly and I give Andrea a tight squeeze. "What are you doing here?" I ask happily.

"Trying to make some peace," she replies, smiling back. And she seems very genuine. But I remember what Carl told me last night, that the Governor is crazy and that Andrea was sucked into the madness.

"How?" I ask.

"You're both scared and lashing out at each other," Andrea says "We just need to get some terms established, and…" she trails off and sighs. "I'm trying to set up some sort of meeting between Rick and the Governor."

"The _Governor_," I scoff.

"It's a nickname."

"_Dawson's _a nickname."

Andrea sighs. "His real name is Philip. And he's not as bad as you all seem to think he is. To the rest of Woodbury, you're all the bad guys."

"They shot me," I deadpan.

She raises her eyebrows. "You killed several of their men," she retorts.

"Fair enough," I shrug, leaning into the wall next to my bunk. "You really think that you can get peace between two people who have been killing each other off? Because they've killed two of ours, as well."

"Then you're even," Andrea insists. "We don't have to talk about this, you know. I'm more used to you _not_ talking."

"Oh yeah," I smirk "You have no idea what a smartass I am."

She laughs lightly. "You being sick in a bed—_that _I'm used to."

"Yeah, I've been making a habit of it," I laugh lightly.

We talk for a while about nothing in particular, and it's almost a little bit strange. I really didn't know Andrea as well as the other members of the group, but she seems to care about me. Maybe it's from taking care of me for those weeks when I was on the farm. And I have to admit, she really wants peace between us and this Woodbury place. I want that to be possible, but I'm skeptical. The war in the Middle East didn't even end before the _whole freaking world_ ended, and we were there for more than a decade.

But we keep it light for the most part. We talk about books and stuff like that, make a few jokes, and share some war stories. Eventually she's pulled away by Rick, but it was nice to talk to a semi-familiar face.

After Andrea leaves, I notice that my ear is bleeding. Not a lot, but it's noticeable. I sigh and grab a rag that Hershel left me for such an occasion as this and hold it over the right side of my head. It still hurts. And I really, really hate punctured ear drums.

* * *

Andrea says goodbye to me before she leaves, headed back to Woodbury and the _Governor_. Carol comes to my cell with Judith and we play cards until Judith squeals and about punctures my eardrum all over again. Carol mutters an apology and rushes Judith away before my ear starts ringing too badly.

I sigh at our unfinished card game. Hershel won't let me read, which leaves my entertainment options quite limited.

At least we're somewhat relaxed for now. Andrea's visit has almost definitely secured us a couple days of confidence that the Governor won't attack again. We'll probably take that time to go on the run that Carl mentioned to me and reinforce all of those fortifications we were making when the Governor attacked the first time.

I start cleaning up the cards dejectedly. Just to waste even more time I sort them before putting them back into the little box, but it really isn't all that stimulating.

I put the cards back on my table and grab my gun. Release the clip and look at the bullets—all six are in there. Put the clip back in. Flick the safety on and off a few times. Put the gun back on the table. Ignore the fact that my cheek is itching underneath the bandage.

I let out a frustrated sigh that I know anybody in the cell block will probably be able to hear, but I don't particularly care.

I smell something cooking. Probably just beans, but I decide that I want to eat downstairs, not have my food brought up to me like I'm an invalid. Besides, it's about time I've met the mysterious Merle Dixon.

I slip my shoes on and carefully put my hair up before leaving my cell. I walk down the stairs carefully, keeping a grip on the railing in case the dizziness decides to show up, but it doesn't. I reach the bottom of the stairs without incident and cross the room. The riot guard is open and Beth is handing out bowls of food to people. I see Daryl sitting next to an unfamiliar man, who I immediately know is Merle.

Merle is taller and burlier than Daryl, with a buzz cut and a slightly more… well, violent look to him, but I could just be biased. He has a few tattoos and is wearing a wife beater, which is something I've never seen Daryl in, despite the fact that he seems to be devoted to a sleeveless lifestyle. Merle also has no right hand. Instead, he has some sort of metal attachment strapped on. There's a pretty scary looking knife blade on the table in front of him, which I assume connects to the aforementioned attachment.

Innovative.

A few people look up as I enter, including Merle. A pretty unsettling grin crosses his face and he booms "Well, ain't it the girl with the busted ear!" He has the same drawl as Daryl, but he's much more condescending. And clearly much more… _loud_.

"Nice to meet you, Merle," I deadpan with raised eyebrows. "I'm Dawson."

Merle smirks again and nudges his elbow into Daryl's side. Daryl grimaces and scoots away from his brother, and it takes me a moment to realize what that exchange was about—Daryl probably told him about what happened… _between us_.

I grimace and turn away from them, no longer interested in what Merle looks like. I take a step towards Beth, but stop—

—because Beth's handing out food. If Beth's handing out food, then who is this bleach blonde person cooking the beans? Did she come here with Merle? Nobody told me about a girl…

I clear my throat and the girl turns around—

—smiles—

—stops—

—eyes widen—

—mouth drops—

—she's taller and skinnier and has a few little curves and shorter hair and chapped lips but it's _her_—

"Lucy," I whisper.

And she smiles, beams, grins, face absolutely splitting open and she says one word in her beautiful voice—

_"Sami!"_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

OMG LUCY! Yeah, well... I'm sure at least a few of you saw this coming, but you know.

Random fact: The scar that will be left on Dawson's face is a slight nod to the comics. Andrea in the comics gets a scar on her cheek when one of the prisoners attacked her. Another random fact: Andrea in the comic books is much more likable than Andrea in the TV show.

So, further plans. The Lucy story 'Welcome to the New World,' will be posted (probably) on March 24th. That's the day after the second to last episode of 4.2 premiers. I thought about doing it after the season finale, but that felt like too long a wait and I figured that the Internet would explode.

What will I do over the next three weeks? Well, three things:

1. Write 'Welcome to the New World.'

2. Do some spring cleaning on this story, look for any errors that went unnoticed, get rid of old AN's.

3. Get ahead on some school work, particularly my *gags* obscenely long research paper.

Lastly, if any of you want some sort of little One-Shot, feel free to message me about it. (However, I will NOT be writing a one-shot about the Daryl/Dawson love scene, as one reader has already showed interest in. *narrows eyes* You know who you are.)

So, March 24. Welcome to the New World. Rated T. Look for it. I'll also post a little 23rd chapter at the end of this and leave it up for about a week in case you're following this story.

Much love to you all, and thank you for reading this story all the way to the end. Please favorite, follow, and review.

* * *

Edit on March 18- Just something I noticed that I'd like to address. A few people, both reviewers and Private Messagers, have said that the one issue they take with my story is the fact that the asthma thing kind of tapers off. *Blushes* yeah, I promise you that's important in the next story from Dawson's perspective. I didn't even notice that I had neglected the whole asthma thing because when I first conceived of this story it was all one big thing that I ended up splitting down the middle when I felt like it was getting too long.

Anyway, I don't mean to sound defensive, because I hate making excuses for things that I do. But just know that I have seen this problem, and as I go through and edit this story one last time I might add a few paragraphs pertaining to Dawson's asthma that don't really effect the overall story.

Still loving you all for taking time to read this story. Please favorite, follow, and review!

And lastly, Welcome to The New World will absolutely, definitely be posted on March 24. :)

**End Author's Note.**


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